The Damned Trilogy

by Alan Dean Foster

  Her files grew, and with them her concern.

  On Human-settled Daccar, sustained fighting had broken out between the inhabitants of the eastern and northern portions of the landmass. Though not as severe as the explosive outbursts of violence that had marred the history of Old Earth, it was worrisome enough.

  A trio of S’van interlocutors who just happened to be on MacKay working on another project energetically offered to mediate a dispute which ignited on that Human colony world. Their offer was accepted, but they had only limited success.

  On Mauka IV dissension took the form of a group of offshore islanders who, claiming neglect, sought to distance themselves from the central planetary administration on the mainland. As the islands numbered among their inhabitants a large number of recently retired soldiers, the extent of their resistance was out of all proportion to their actual population. There were no S’van present to help dampen either the ardor of the islanders or the reactive resentment of those on the mainland.

  The worst troubles flared on Barnard’s, the first world to be colonized by Humans from Earth and one that was fast becoming nearly as urbanized. It was home also to a modest population of Massood, who did their best to remain aloof from their bipedal brethren’s uncivilized and rapidly deteriorating behavior. The existence of a large class of Humans who’d grown wealthy from activities related to the war only exacerbated growing tensions, which threatened to involve the Massood in spite of themselves.

  It was a situation sufficiently degenerative to inspire quiet jubilation among the Amplitur, but though she searched many sources Lalelelang could find no indication of even indirect Amplitur involvement in the growing canon of Human deviant activity. Nor was there any indication of regression or restlessness among their former allies such as the Ashregan and Crigolit. All blithely continued to disarm and to vocally embrace the new peace.

  Lalelelang knew the Amplitur must be aware of what was happening on the human worlds, but she had no more proof of it than she had to substantiate her other theories. The tentacled ones continued to dismantle their extensive military apparatus while taking hesitant steps toward participating in unrestricted interstellar commerce and communication. If their activities were inspired by ulterior motives, the Amplitur kept them well hidden.

  Then, near the end of the fourth year following the first such outbreak, and contrary to her ominous predictions, the fighting leveled off. It did not cease entirely. Some inter-Human conflicts continued, new ones flared, but others were settled. Not every potential confrontation reached flash point, not every argument erupted in violence. Several serious commercial disputes were settled by agreement.

  Having learned a painful lesson on Barnard’s, the Massood stayed out of such skirmishes. Any active S’van role remained invisible. Needless to say, the other members of the Weave ignored the ongoing Human preoccupation with violence as completely as was possible.

  Maybe she’d underestimated the S’van. She wouldn’t be the first to have done so. Maybe they could keep the Human disease under control without having to cure it completely. Or perhaps the lid was being kept on further outbreaks of violence thanks to the work of Colonel Nevan Straat-ien’s mysterious Core. Or maybe they were working on the S’van. Whatever the cause, the results were encouraging.

  Was there such a thing, even for an eccentric species like Homo sapiens, as a tolerable level of societal violence? She pondered the theoretical options.

  Though distressed by the tumult, the rest of the Weave was more than willing to ignore it so long as it did not spread to their own worlds. Unlike the S’van, now that the war was over the general Weave population didn’t much care if Humankind exterminated itself. In fact, there were many who would have thought such a denouement a good thing.

  Several hundred years of association with the Weave had wrought some perceptible changes in the fabric of Human society. There were signs that perhaps the first contact, William Dulac, had been at least partially correct in his evaluation of his own kind. Now that the war was over, social interaction between some Humans and their colleagues on other worlds began to expand.

  If the S’van could be persuaded to change their minds about continuing the cultivation of Human fighting abilities, such progress toward true integrated civilization might be accelerated. If not, she knew it was possible for Humankind to someday revert to the kind of uninhibited homicidal warfare that had originally characterized the species. Lalelelang checked and rechecked her work. The stocky, hirsute humanoids were playing a very dangerous game on an unimaginably grand scale.

  In any event, the best she could do was observe and monitor. The visit she had received from the S’van years earlier remained clear and sharp in her memory, as did the implication behind it.

  Occasionally she wondered how her old friend the colonel, Nevan Straat-ien, was coping with peace, or if he was involved in any of the violent flare-ups among his people. There’d been no contact between them for a number of years. Maintaining contact between individuals who lived on different worlds was a difficult, not to mention expensive, proposition. Like most Humans, he was doubtless frantically busy. With his own career, perhaps a new one, or with a family. He had never discussed mating in her presence, but then why should he? His rituals and dances were not hers.

  The unusual friendship that had developed between them had been forged of necessity and immediacy. Neither dition any longer existed. Now and then she took a moment to wish him well wherever he was, and flattered herself that he might occasionally do the same in remembrance of her. She wondered if he gave much thought to her theories and decided he did not. Weave civilization was not after all on the verge of being overwhelmed by rampaging Humans.

  She was greatly pleased that time had proven her wrong.

  So far.

  XVIII

  Lieutenant Tuan al-Haikim was as ignorant as his fellow officers of the reason for the meeting. Insofar as he knew, it couldn’t have anything to do with the recent troubles in the southeastern provinces. Those had been settled weeks ago and there’d been nothing in the available media about any new flare-ups. Not that something couldn’t have been kept quiet.

  Perhaps the general wanted to congratulate them on their handling of the situation. Or maybe something new had come up. Al-Haikim hoped not. He didn’t like shooting at his own kind. Of course, those damned impertinent southeasterners thought they were so much better than everyone else simply because their ancestors had settled the planet first, but that didn’t give them the right to—

  He caught himself. He’d been thinking like the average city dweller; not like one whose ancestors had suffered under the tentacles of the Amplitur on Cossuut. Such thoughts were unbecoming to one of the Core.

  He studied his fellow officers. They stood or sat or sprawled around the comfortable room, chatting and joking. Several were due for demobilization next month. Even now, years after the end of the Great War, the military continued its inexorable shrinkage. Al-Haikim had worked hard to stay in the Force, just as he’d worked hard for his recent promotion. It was important that the Core remain well represented in the surviving military, if only to counter ongoing surreptitious S’van intervention in Human affairs.

  He smiled to himself. While the S’van interfered with Humankind, unbeknownst to them the Core interfered with the S’van. Thus far it had been an equitable trade-off.

  Though all but two of those present outranked him, he knew most of them personally. They constituted a significant portion of the general staff on Daccar. During the war they had been scattered across a great arc of space. When the troubles had begun on Daccar, they had been brought here. The colony was a particularly fractious place, a hive of innovation as well as a kind of sociological bellwether for the other Human worlds. It was a good place to spot new trends, bad as well as benign.

  In his capacity as a communications specialist he’d met General Levaughn twice, and then only briefly. It was impossible to form an opinion of someone based o
n such abbreviated contact, and generals were not in the habit of confiding in or asking advice of their lieutenants. All he knew about his comparatively youthful commanding officer was that his record was distinguished. Levaughn was famed as a dedicated soldier and relentless fighter. It was rumored that he had helped to settle some of the more acrimonious southeastern disputes through personal intervention in the negotiating process.

  Such musings were pushed into the background as Levaughn entered and waved. Those of his senior advisors who knew him best waved back. As none of those present were in uniform there was no need to maintain the strictures of military formality.

  A colonel rose and did something at a wall panel. Al-Haikim watched as safeshields slid down over the windows and the single entryway. A couple of the officers acknowledged these defensive preparations with a low murmur, but no one ventured to question them. Surely everything would be explained, including the need for such security. To Al-Haikim’s way of thinking it hearkened back to wartime conditions. He would have been even more surprised if he’d been able to see the armed guard that was taking up grim-faced positions outside the meeting room.

  Levaughn halted in front of a bookshelf that, astonishingly enough, was full of books. Real books, made of board and glue and paper. A native of Daccar, the general came from a wealthy family. This had helped him considerably in his dealings with the obstreperous southeasterners.

  Now he stood silently contemplating his hand-picked audience. He was a short man, though stockier than al-Haikim and many others. He wore his hair cut short and flat in the old military style, with his emblem of rank shaved into the sides. His eyes were large, black, and penetrating. They framed a nose that had been broken several times in combat. Below was a soft, rounded chin and an effeminate mouth. The ears were large and laid back, as if trying to hide within his hair.

  Levaughn’s rise through the ranks had been little short of meteoric. The man who had once commanded half a planetary invasion force was now reduced to overseeing the demobilization of troops on his homeworld while concurrently trying to deal with a string of small but bloody riots. The latter were limited in scope but persistent. Since the end of the war, urban Daccarans had developed a reputation for using old-style violence to settle local disputes.

  “Please, ladies and gentlemen, be seated.” Levaughn smiled at them, showing regenerated teeth.

  When they’d complied he continued. “Before we get to the business at hand I want to congratulate all of you on your efforts these past months. The southeast is nearly at peace, a condition it hasn’t experienced in some time. I’m told the education people down there are putting in overtime to see it doesn’t get out of hand again. Maybe we haven’t done as well as our equivalents on some other worlds, but after all, this is Daccar.” A few knowing grins and guffaws greeted this sage observation.

  “Sometimes I think it’s harder to fight the peace than it was to fight the war.” More chuckling, punctuated by a few softly voiced obscenities. Al-Haikim automatically made note of the latter for future use.

  “Maybe some of you have noticed that demobilization doesn’t always go smoothly. It’s hard when you and your parents and your grandparents devoted their lives to fighting for a great cause and then that cause is suddenly snatched away. It’s not easy to readjust.” He smiled compassionately. “I’m having a pretty tough time myself.

  “It’s hard to stand before units that have earned glory in combat and tell them that tomorrow they have to learn how to be statisticians or agriculturalists or assembly personnel. I don’t know about any of you, but I can’t do that without feeling a sense of loss. But let’s face it: If it wasn’t for the occasional troubles that keep cropping up, the problem would be even worse than it is.” There was a substantial but by no means universal muttering of assent.

  “Those of us here are lucky. We’re all still together, doing what we’ve been trained to do. Performing that which we do best.” His tone turned regretful. “Pity it can’t last. After all, we’re at peace now.” He began to pace in front of the bookshelf, his movements as measured and precise as his speech.

  “What I’ve always wondered about, soldiers, is what this peace gains us. What do we, as fighting Humans, get out of it?”

  “An absence of death, sir,” ventured a perceptive major from the far side of the room.

  Levaughn nodded. “Can’t argue with that. What else?” There were no other comments. “How about friendship with the Weave? Except that we’ve never been invited to join that august organization of noble noncombatants. Commercial gain? Hell, the Hivistahm and the O’o’yan are better manufacturers than we are, the Wais better artists, the Massood more disciplined workers, the S’van cannier innovators, the Motar and Sspari more adroit growers. Where’s that leave us? And what happens when our former enemies get back on nonmilitary tracks? Nobody can build anything more efficiently than those damn bug-eyed Crigolit. Seems like anything we can do, some other species can do better.

  “Course, we’re still the galaxy’s greatest warriors, its toughest fighters. Even our former enemies admit to that. So let me ask you something, ladies and gentlemen: What the fuck good is that gonna do us now?”

  The assembled soldiers stirred uneasily. Al-Haikim made a show of participating, but his attention was devoted to recording the reactions of his colleagues. By now it was evident this gathering was intended as something much more than a casual get-together.

  Levaughn let them bicker, and argue, and finally simmer down before raising both hands for silence. He had their full attention now. No one was laughing.

  “I’ve known some of you since you began your careers, from Brigadier Higham there—” He indicated a nodding older man seated in a large overstuffed chair. “—to some of you junior officers.” Al-Haikim was glad Levaughn didn’t glance in his direction. “In turn, you know me. I’m no diplomat and I’m lousy at preplanning. Strike straight, don’t deviate: that’s been my motto since I was a field grunt. It’s served me pretty well. I’m still here, still all original issue.” He opened his mouth wide. “Except for these ceramic choppers.” Several of those in attendance laughed in spite of themselves.

  Levaughn lowered his voice. “O’o’yan manufacture.” The laughing stopped.

  “The war’s over. We did that. We Humans. Oh sure, we had plenty of material aid from the Weave, and the Massood did their share of the fighting, but we’re the ones who turned the tide. Can’t no species take that away from us.

  “The thing is, none of ’em want to give us anything in return. What’s our place gonna be now that the service we perform best is no longer in demand?”

  Someone else in the back spoke up. “I hear that the Mazvec have already petitioned to join!” There was a general murmur of surprise from the assembled.

  Levaughn nodded sagely. “Former enemy. We beat the crap out of ’em on Letant Three and Corschuuk. Now they’re going be invited in and we’re still standing around looking dumb, like the ugly wallflower waiting for somebody to ask ’em to dance.” He put his fists on his hips and eyed them evenly.

  “That’s assuming that there’s still a Weave around in half a century’s time to ask anybody into anything. Without the Purpose to unite against, the whole system may fall apart. It’s already starting to fray. Know what that means? Without any dependable, traditional interstellar alliances, like those existing between the Hivis and the O’os, for example, every Human-occupied world will become an instant galactic backwater. We won’t have anything anybody else’ll want, and they won’t be compelled to have anything to do with us. Some thanks for a couple hundred years of blood and sacrifice.

  “Oh, there won’t be anarchy. They’re all too civilized for that. Interstellar distances being what they are, things’ll just become a lot looser. With us floating free on the fringes. No galactic empire for Humankind, like some writers speculated in the early days. Empire, hell! We won’t even have a minor role. We’ll go back to being ignored.

 
“Maybe there’s worse fates than that, but I’m not so sure. Oh, Humankind’ll get along okay. We’ll have our own little association of worlds, centered on good old Earth. Provided we can keep from exterminating ourselves. The troubles are the first hints of that. Psychosocial specters from our claustrophobic one-world past. Meanwhile the rest of the galaxy will go back to spurning us, which is what they’ve always wanted to do.” He was gesturing assertively with his hands now. For the first time al-Haikim noticed how they’d been torn, and scarred, and repeatedly repaired through regenerative surgery.

  “As you may have guessed by now, I’ve given a lot of thought to Humankind’s postwar future. Fact is, I’ve been thinking about it ever since the Great Surrender at Ail and Eil, observing and taking notes, and I can tell you that I don’t much like what I see. I can also tell you that I, personally, after having helped to defeat the Amplitur and all their allies, am not prepared to passively accept that future.” Jaws clenched in anger, he shook his fist at them.

  “We put an end to the Purpose! We won the victory! And now we’re expected to meekly hand it over and stagger off unprotestingly into oblivion.”

  It was dead silent in the room when he finished.

  A final protest against mutating times, al-Haikim thought uneasily. A last polemic raised against the changing order. Or was there something more?

  A pensive Lieutenant Colonel Otumbo rose. He’d known Levaughn longer than any of them, even Higham. “I assume you’ve got something in mind, Nicholas. Military dictatorship?” A few nervous titters greeted this brazen query.