Colonization: Down to Earth

by Harry Turtledove

  That Straha would; the envelope had TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH written on it, in both English and the language of the Race. The ex-shiplord kept one eye turret on it and turned the other toward Sam Yeager. “And what do I do with this if I should have to open it?”

  “When you see what is inside, you will know,” Yeager said. “I trust you not to open it while I am still among those present.” That was another English idiom. “If I ever ask on the telephone to have it back, do not give it to me unless I say ‘it would help if you did.’ Unless I use that exact phrase, I am asking under duress. Then tell me it was accidentally destroyed, or lost, or something of the sort.”

  “As you say, so shall it be. By the spirits of Emperors past, I swear it.” Straha cast down his eyes. Sam Yeager’s head bobbed up and down in the Tosevite gesture of agreement. Straha found another question: “What if I were to open it before anything happened to you?”

  “One of the reasons I am giving it to you is that I trust you not to do that more than I trust any of my Big Ugly friends,” Yeager answered. “Am I wrong?”

  “No,” Straha said firmly. He cast down his eyes again. “By the spirits of Emperors past, I swear that, too.” He paused and slyly waggled an eye turret a little. “How much trouble would I cause if I did?”

  Yeager laughed. He relied on Straha not to mean that. But his own voice was serious as he replied, “More than you can imagine, Shiplord. Even if you multiply that imagination by ten, more than you can imagine.” He laughed again. “And that probably tempts you to open it more than anything else I have said.”

  “As a matter of fact, it does,” Straha answered. What did Yeager have in the envelope he now held in his own scaly hand? Whatever it was, by the way he spoke it was even more important than his raising hatchlings of the Race as if they were Big Uglies. Straha wondered if it was some purely Tosevite affair or one also involving the Race He could find out. He could . . .

  “As I said, I trust you,” Yeager told him.

  “You may.” Straha meant it. “I shall hide this envelope and keep it safe and not open it, as you require.” He laughed. “But I shall go right on wondering what it holds.”

  Sam Yeager nodded. “Fair enough.”

  When the telephone rang, Vyacheslav Molotov feared it would be Marshal Zhukov. Ever since the Germans and the Lizards started fighting, Zhukov had called more often than Molotov really wanted to listen to him. The Soviet Union’s leading soldier assumed that war close to the border brought him to the fore, and Molotov was in no position to contradict him.

  But Molotov’s secretary spoke in some excitement: “Comrade General Secretary, I have Paul Schmidt on the line.”

  “The German ambassador, Pyotr Maksimovich?” Molotov said. “Put him through, by all means.” He waited, then spoke to Schmidt: “And what can I do for you today, your Excellency?”

  “May I please see you as soon as I can reach the Kremlin?” Schmidt asked. “I would sooner not conduct my business over uncertainly secure wires.”

  “By all means, come. I will see you,” Molotov replied. He wondered whether his wires were insecure, whether Zhukov was listening. Probably, he judged, but he called the marshal anyway as soon as he got off the phone with the German. Without preamble, he said, “Schmidt is on the way here.”

  “Did he say what for?”

  “No. He said he would tell me when he got here.”

  “All right. Keep me apprised.” Zhukov hung up.

  Molotov had cakes and rolls stuffed with spiced meat set out beside the samovar in the corner of the office where he went to wait for Schmidt. He had never had any use for the man’s Nazi bosses, but liked him as well as he liked anyone.

  After the handshakes and polite greetings that followed the German ambassador’s arrival, Schmidt took tea and did eat one of the rolls. Molotov waited patiently. Schmidt blotted his lips on a linen napkin, then, grimacing, said, “Comrade General Secretary, I would like you to use your good offices to help the Greater German Reich end its hostilities with the Race.”

  “Ah.” Molotov had thought it might be so. He wasn’t sure whether or not he’d hoped it might be so. He wouldn’t have been altogether sorry to see the Germans and the Lizards pound on each other a while longer. Maybe the Nazis couldn’t pound any more. Delicately, Molotov said, “You understand, this may involve negotiating a surrender.”

  Schmidt nodded. “Yes, I do understand that. General Dornberger, who has assumed the Führer’s office, understands it as well.”

  “I see.” From the briefings Molotov had had from the GRU, Dornberger was indeed a capable, sensible man. But the briefings didn’t explain everything. “How did General Dornberger survive the Race’s attack on Peenemünde?”

  “We knew the Race would attack there, and fortified our shelters to stand up to the worst we thought they could do,” Schmidt replied. “There, our engineering proved adequate.” He bowed his head. Molotov wondered if he should have offered vodka along with the tea. Gathering himself, Schmidt went on, “But we did not realize the Lizards would strike so many hard and violent blows against the Reich.”

  Molotov couldn’t imagine why the Nazi leaders hadn’t realized that. The Race had told them what would happen—told them in great detail. They’d chosen not to listen, and paid an enormous price for not listening. Now they had to settle accounts. Molotov didn’t bring that up. All he said was, “If you would care to wait, I will withdraw and call Queek. I have another office where the two of you can confer, and I will be glad to assist in any way I can.”

  “Thank you,” Schmidt said. “I would be grateful for your assistance.”

  As Molotov had expected, he had no trouble reaching Queek, or rather the Lizard’s interpreter. After the interpreter spoke to his principal, he returned to Russian to tell Molotov, “We shall be there directly. This war has done too much damage to both sides for it to continue.”

  “I look forward to seeing the ambassador,” Molotov replied. He went back to the office where Schmidt waited. “Queek and his interpreter are on their way. Come with me; I will take you to a room where you and he can discuss the matter.”

  “Why not this one?” the German ambassador asked.

  “Security,” Molotov answered, one word for which no counter-argument existed in the Soviet Union.

  Servants—not that the dictator of the proletariat thought of them as such—hastily brought refreshments to the office where Molotov met with Queek The ambassador from the Race and his interpreter arrived within fifteen minutes. After hypocritical expressions of personal esteem aimed at Paul Schmidt, Queek came to the point: “Is the Reich prepared to surrender without conditions?”

  “Without conditions? No,” Schmidt answered. “We still have resources we can use to hurt you, and we are prepared to go on doing that at need.”

  Queek rose from the chair that was suited to his posterior. “In that case, we have nothing to say to each other. Call me again when you come to your senses.”

  “Wait,” Molotov said quickly. “You are here now. Why not listen to the conditions Schmidt proposes for surrender? They may be acceptable to you, or you may be able to negotiate with him until they become acceptable.”

  Molotov had seen how hard the concept of negotiating with humans was for the Race to grasp. The interpreter and Queek had to go back and forth several times before the Lizard grudgingly made the hand gesture his kind used for a nod. “Let it be as you request,” he said. “I recognize that your government has broken no significant promises during this period of crisis.” It was faint praise, but Molotov took it Queek swung his eye turrets toward Schmidt and asked, “What conditions do you propose, then?”

  “First, the Reich is to retain its political independence,” Schmidt said.

  “Why should we grant you that?” the Lizard demanded.

  “You have devastated our land, but you do not occupy it,” Schmidt replied. “In fighting on the ground, we have given at least as good as we’ve got.�
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  “So what?” Queek said. “We have found other ways to win the war, found them and used them. If you do not think we have won, why did you ask for this meeting?”

  “It is hard to imagine you could do more to wreck the Reich than you have already done,” Schmidt said, fighting to salvage what he could with a skill Molotov had to admire. “But we still have land-based missiles unfired, and you have done next to nothing to our missile-carrying submarines. If you give us nothing, what have we got to lose by using all the explosive-metal bombs we have left against you?”

  “This is a point worthy of consideration,” Molotov said to Queek. The Reich wasn’t going to be able to threaten his country for quite a while, and he didn’t want the Lizards hitting it with any more explosive-metal bombs, not when the wind had already blown too much fallout into the USSR.

  But Queek said, “If, on the other fork of the tongue, we rule the Reich from now on, we will have no fear of any such attacks in the future.”

  Molotov had to hide a grimace. Though it knew nothing of the dialectic, the Race did think in the long term. Before Molotov could say anything, Paul Schmidt did: “Do you have enough soldiers to garrison another land full of people who hate you? You have enough trouble holding down the mostly unindustrialized areas of the world that you rule. How hard would it be for you to occupy the Reich, too? How expensive would it be? And for how long would you have to do it?”

  “Again, cogent points.” Molotov didn’t want to sound like Germany’s advocate, but he didn’t want the war to go on, either.

  And Queek, this time, didn’t reject out of hand. Instead, he said, “If you retain independence, it will necessarily be limited. We will restrict your military forces, and we will place inspectors in your not-empire to make sure you do not seek to exceed by stealth the restrictions we set.”

  “General Dornberger will accept such restrictions,” Schmidt said at once. “Germany has known them in the past.”

  And Germany had got around them, too, Molotov knew. During the 1920s, there had been a good deal of clandestine cooperation between Germany and the Soviet Union, from which they’d both benefited. He wondered if the new Führer would try to make history repeat itself. That would be harder this time, he guessed. England and France hadn’t had the will to make Germany live up to the restrictions of the Treaty of Versailles for very long. The Lizards had far more patience.

  Then Queek proved the Race had been ready for this dicker after all, for he said, “If the Reich is to remain independent of the Race, then we shall also insist that the region of your not-empire known as France shall become independent—independent once more, I should say—of the Reich.”

  Schmidt looked as if he’d bitten into an apple and found half a worm. Molotov said, “Under the circumstances, this does not strike me as an unreasonable request.”

  “No, it wouldn’t, would it?” Schmidt muttered. A resuscitated France weakened Germany against the USSR as well as against the Race.

  “It is not a request,” Queek said. “It is a demand. It is a minimum demand.”

  Scowling still, Paul Schmidt said, “I believe the new Führer will accept it.”

  “Further,” Queek said, “the Reich will be prohibited from possessing explosive-metal weapons and missile delivery systems. The Reich will also be prohibited from flights into Earth orbit or to other regions of the solar system of Tosev 3.”

  “You leave us very little,” Schmidt said bitterly.

  “You deserve very little, after the damage you have done us,” replied the Race’s ambassador to the Soviet Union. “Many among us think we are overgenerous in allowing you anything at all. You may keep this reduced role, or you may fight on. After all of you are dead, occupying the Reich should not be difficult.”

  Molotov added, “I do not know if the new Führer of the Reich will listen to my views, but I think he would be wise to accept these terms. Do you believe he will get better ones if he goes on fighting?”

  Schmidt could hardly have seemed more miserable. “If we do accept them, we go from a first-rate power to one of the second or third class.”

  “And if you do not accept them, what will happen to you?” Queek retorted. “You will be altogether destroyed, and what sort of power will you retain after that? None. The Reich will become an empty eggshell, to be crushed underfoot.”

  “I shall have to consult with General Dornberger before finally accepting these terms,” the German ambassador said.

  “Consult quickly,” Queek warned. “Every instant you delay will lead to more damage to your not-empire, and may result in harsher terms.”

  “May I use your facilities, Comrade General Secretary?” Schmidt asked.

  “You may,” Molotov answered. “I hope success attends your efforts.” As Schmidt left, Molotov turned back to the Lizard and his interpreter. “Take more refreshments, if you care to.” Queek used the negative hand gesture. The Pole who translated for him ate as if food and drink would be proscribed tomorrow. He was not sorry to see Germany discomfited—no, not even a little.

  After less than half an hour, Schmidt returned. He bowed to Queek. “He agrees. He agrees to everything. You have won this war.”

  “We did not begin it,” Queek said.

  “Let us be glad it is over,” Molotov put in. “Let us be glad it is over, and let us begin to rebuild.” And to plot against one another again, he added, but only to himself.

  Harry Turtledove was born in Los Angeles in 1949. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fullerton, and Cal State L.A., and has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. He is also an award-winning full-time writer of science fiction and fantasy. His alternate history works have included several short stories and novels, including The Guns of the South, How Few Remain (winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel), the Great War epics: American Front and Walk in Hell, and the Colonization books: Second Contact and Down to Earth. His new novel is American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.

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  BOOKS BY HARRY TURTLEDOVE

  The Guns of the South

  THE WORLDWAR SAGA

  Worldwar: In the Balance

  Worldwar: Tilting the Balance

  Worldwar:Upsetting the Balance

  Worldwar: Striking the Balance

  COLONIZATION

  Colonization: Second Contact

  Colonization: Down to Earth

  Colonization: Aftershocks

  THE VIDESSOS CYCLE

  The Misplaced Legion

  An Emperor for the Legion

  The Legion of Videssos

  Swords of the Legion

  THE TALE OF KRISPOS

  Krispos Rising

  Krispos of Videssos

  Krispos the Emperor

  THE TIME OF TROUBLES SERIES

  The Stolen Throne

  Hammer and Anvil

  The Thousand Cities Videssos Besieged

  Noninterference

  Kaleidoscope

  A World of Difference

  Earthgrip

  Departures

  How Few Remain

  THE GREAT WAR

  The Great War: American Front

  The Great War: Walk in Hell

  The Great War: Breakthroughs

  American Empire: Blood and Iron

  A Del Rey® Book

  Published by The Ballantine Publisheing Group

  Copyright © 2000 by Harry Turtledove

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Ballantine Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New Y
ork, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Del Rey is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 00-109770

  eISBN 0-345-45366-2

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