Foreign Legions

by David Drake

  Before answering, Fludenoc examined the Pilot and the Medic. The Pilot was utterly motionless. Much like the species which had produced Agayan, the Pilot's race also responded to sudden danger by instinctive immobility. Only her color—pale violet, now—indicated her terror.

  There would be no problems with her, Fludenoc decided. He did not think she would recover for some time.

  The Medic, on the other hand—

  The Medic belonged to a species which would have seemed vaguely avian to humans. His instinctive reaction to shock was rapid flight. Yet, aside from an initial attempt to struggle free from the iron grip of the Gha who had captured him, the Medic seemed almost tranquil. His Gha captor still held him by the arm, but the Medic was making no attempt to escape.

  Fludenoc stared down at him. The Medic's flat, golden eyes stared back.

  "Do not not mind me," the Medic suddenly trilled. "I am just just a bystander. Interested bystander."

  The Medic gazed down at the corpse of the Voivode. "I always always wondered what the worm's blood looked like." He trilled pure pleasure. "Never never thought I'd find out."

  Uddumac interrupted.

  "Explain, Fludenoc. I obeyed your command because you are the flarragun of our Poct'on cartouche. But now that the action is finished, I have a full right to demand an accounting."

  Fludenoc decided the Medic was no immediate problem, either. He turned to face Uddumac and the other Gha in the chamber.

  "I gave the command because our opportunity has finally arrived."

  "What opportunity?" asked the Gha holding the Medic.

  Fludenoc's whole upper torso swiveled to face his questioner. For all its immense strength, the Gha physique was not limber. Evolved on a heavy-gravity planet, Gha necks were almost completely rigid.

  "You know perfectly well what opportunity, Oltomar. The same opportunity the Poct'on has been searching for since it was founded."

  Oltomar's response was a quick, wavering hiss.

  Fludenoc, understanding the subtleties in that hiss, felt a sudden surge of bitter anger. His anger, and his bitterness, were not directed toward Oltomar. They were directed at the universe, in general; and galactic civilization, in particular.

  The same evolutionary necessities which had produced the rigid upper vertebra of the Gha species, had also produced their stiff, unmoving faces. The bleak, wind-scoured, heavy planet where Gha had originated was merciless. No soft, supple, flexible animals could survive there—only creatures which presented a hard shield to the world, and thereby withstood its heavy lashes.

  Intelligence, when it came to that planet, came in a suitable form. A form which, when other intelligences discovered them—more technologically advanced intelligences, but not smarter ones—could see nothing beyond the stiff shield of Gha faces. And the immense strength of Gha bodies.

  The Gha were famed—notorious—among all the intelligent races of the galaxy. They were the epitome of the stolid dullwit. Only the Gha themselves knew of their inner life. Of the subtle ways in which their breath transmitted meaning; their voices, undertones of sentiment.

  Only the Gha knew of their poetry. To galactic civilization—to the Doge Species which ruled that civilization—the Gha were nothing more than splendid thugs. The galaxy's premier goons.

  Fludenoc shook off the anger. (Literally. His fellows, watching, understood the nuances of that shoulder movement as perfectly as he had understood the skepticism in Oltomar's hiss.)

  "I'm quite serious, Oltomar. Even before this incident, I thought the Romans were the best possibility we had ever encountered."

  "Too primitive," interjected Uddumac. "We talked it about, you and I, long ago."

  Uddumac gestured to the Voivode's corpse on the floor. "The first time we had the misfortune of being assigned to this worm. We talked about it, then, and we reached a common conclusion. For all their astonishing competence, the Romans were simply too primitive. Barbarians, to all intents and purposes."

  Oltomar chimed in. Again, literally. The chime-syllable which prefaced his words was a Gha way of expressing agreement.

  "Yes. Nothing's changed simply because they managed to seize their troop transport. If they seized it. I'm not sure the worm's theory was correct, but even if it is—so what? The Romans are still barbarians. The Poct'on has always known that—"

  Fludenoc silenced him with a gesture. Left hand before his face, palm outward, fingers spread. Stop—I must interrupt.

  "You're missing the significance of the new data," he said. "That's why I gave the order to kill them." His next gesture—right hand turned aside, waist high, fingers curled against the thumb—was the Gha expression of apology.

  "That's also why I didn't wait until we had an opportunity to discuss the matter, as a Poct'on cartouche would normally do. I had to stop the Pilot from transmitting anything to Guild Headquarters. I'm hoping the Federation itself doesn't understand the significance of the meteorological report. The Guilds may still not know of it at all."

  The other three Gha in the room were silent. Their stiff postures, to anyone but Gha, would have made them seem like statues. But Fludenoc understood their confusion and puzzlement.

  To his surprise, the Pilot suddenly spoke. Fludenoc had almost forgotten her presence.

  "Are you talking about the radio signals?" she asked.

  Fludenoc swiveled to face her. The Pilot froze with instinctive fear, but her color remained close to purple. "I'm s-sorry," she stammered, in Gha. "I didn't mean—"

  "I did not realize you spoke our language," said Fludenoc.

  Then, sadly (though only a Gha would have sensed it in his tone):

  "I am not angry at you for interrupting me, Pilot. Among ourselves, we consider conversation a fine art. Interruption is part of its pleasure."

  The Pilot's shade developed a pinkish undertone. "I know. I have listened to you, sometimes, when you versified each other in your chamber. I thought the poetry was quite good. Although I'm sure I missed most of the nuances."

  Now, all four Gha were staring at the Pilot. And it took no Gha subtlety to realize that they were all absolutely astonished.

  "You are not the only people in the galaxy," the Pilot said softly, "who mourn for what might have been."

  She shifted her footskirt, turning away from Fludenoc to face the other Gha. "I do not think you grasp the importance of those radio signals. The reason the Voivode was so indignant was because he understood that, if the data is accurate, it means that the Romans—or, at least, the human species which produced them—are no longer barbarians. They have reached industrial chain reaction."

  "What in Creation are radio?" demanded Oltomar. "And why is it important?"

  The Pilot hesitated. Again, Fludenoc barked humor.

  "He is not actually an ignoramus, Pilot, appearances to the contrary. It's just that, like most Gha, his education was oriented toward practical matters. His knowledge of history is sadly deficient."

  Beyond a mildly irritated inhalation, Oltomar did not argue the point. Fludenoc made a gesturing motion to the Pilot. Continue.

  "Radio is a part of the electromagnetic spectrum," she explained. "Very far toward the low frequency end. Modern civilization doesn't have any real use for those bands. But in the early stages of industrial chain reaction, it is always the first avenue by which rising civilizations conquer electromagnetism. For a short period of time, such planets project radio waves into the galaxy. The waves are very weak, of course, and undirected, so they are quickly lost in the galaxy's background noise. If the Federation Meteorological Survey hadn't been keeping that portion of the galaxy under close observation because of the Transit storm, those signals would never have been noticed."

  Uddumac interrupted. "You are saying that humans have achieved civilization?"

  "Yes. There can be no natural explanation for such radio signals. And only a civilized species can project radio signals powerful enough to be picked up at interstellar distances."

  "W
hat level of civilization?" demanded Oltomar. "Class One or Two? Or even—Doge?"

  "There's no way to tell without—"

  "The distinction is critical!" Oltomar's statement was almost a shout. "It's absolutely critical."

  The Pilot froze. Fludenoc interposed himself between her and Oltomar. She was actually in no physical danger at all, but her species tended to panic quickly. His protective presence would enable her to relax.

  "Stop bullying her, Oltomar," he said quietly. "She has no way of answering your question—without us making the journey to that planet. Which is precisely what I propose to do."

  He gestured to the dead bodies of the Voivode and the Investigator. "Our journey, not theirs."

  Oltomar subsided, but Uddumac was still unsatisfied.

  "This could easily be a complete waste of effort, Fludenoc. We need to find a suitable species which can claim Doge status. Legally. If the humans are already Class One—advanced Class One—we might be able to nudge them over the edge. As long as we could keep hidden the fact that their Transit capability was stolen from already established Doge technology. But if they're only Class Two, there's no way—"

  He broke off, shivering his shoulders in that Gha gesture which corresponded to a human headshake.

  Fludenoc hesitated before responding. Uddumac's reservations, after all, were quite reasonable. In order for a species to claim Doge status under Federation law, they had to demonstrate a capacity for interstellar travel and commerce. In technological terms, Transit; in socio-political terms, a mercantile orientation. An independent capacity, developed by their own efforts, not simply a capacity acquired from already existing Doges.

  Civilized species which lacked that capacity were considered Class One if they had managed to depart the confines of their own planet before being discovered by galactic civilization. Class Two, if they were a society still bound to their world of origin.

  As Uddumac had rightly said, it might be possible to give humans a false Doge identity by surreptitiously handing them Transit technology. Transit technology, by its nature, was fairly invariant. All the existing Doge Species used essentially the same method. But the subterfuge would only work if humans had already achieved a very high level of Class One civilization. Nobody would believe that human Transit was self-developed if the species was still pulling wagons with draft animals.

  "The decision has already been made," Fludenoc stated, firmly but not belligerently. Again, he pointed to the Doge corpses. "We have no choice now, brothers. Let us make Transit to the human planet. The answer can only be found there."

  There was no further opposition. Fludenoc swiveled to the Pilot.

  "Take us there," he commanded.

  The Pilot left the chamber immediately. Fludenoc turned to examine the Medic.

  "Do not not mind me," the Medic immediately trilled. "I am just just a bystander."

  All the Gha, now, barked their humor.

  "But are you still interested?" asked Oltomar.

  "Oh, yes yes! Very interested interested!"

  IV

  Not so many days later, after Transit was made, the Medic was still interested. Fascinated, in fact.

  "What what in the name of Creation is that that that?"

  There was no answer. Everyone in the control chamber was staring at the viewscreen.

  Staring at that.

  The Pilot finally broke the silence. "I think it's a boat," she whispered.

  "What is a—a boat?" asked Oltomar. He, also, spoke in a whisper.

  "I think she's right," muttered Fludenoc. "I saw a hologram of a boat, once. It looked quite a bit like—that. Except that's a lot bigger. A whole lot bigger."

  "I say it again!" hissed Oltomar. "What in Creation is a boat?"

  "It's a vessel that floats on water," replied Fludenoc. "Very large bodies of water, such as don't exist on our planet."

  Oltomar stared at the screen. "Water?" he demanded. "What water? We're still in the outer fringes of this solar system!"

  A hum from the communication console announced an incoming message.

  "I think we're about to find out," said the Pilot. She shuffled toward the console. "Let's hope they speak some language the computer can translate."

  Fludenoc was suddenly filled with confidence. That was the strangest-looking spacecraft he had ever seen. But, then again, he had thought the Romans were the strangest-looking soldiers he had ever seen, too.

  "The computer will be able to translate," he predicted. "Latin has been programmed into it for over two thousand years."

  He was not wrong. The Latin phrases which the computer received were spoken in a very odd accent, it was true. Quite unlike the original input. But the phrases were simple enough:

  "Unknown spacecraft: you are ordered to hold position. Any movement toward the inner planets will be construed as a hostile act."

  "There are more of those—boats—coming," said Uddumac. "Lots of them. Very big boats."

  "We repeat—hold your position. We are sending a boarding party. Any resistance will be construed as a hostile act."

  Fludenoc instructed the Pilot: "Send a message indicating that the boarding party will be allowed ingress without obstruction. And tell them we seek a parley."

  "These are Romans?" queried Oltomar. His tone wavered pure confusion.

  "Pilot," said Fludenoc. "Ask them to identify themselves as well."

  The reply came quickly:

  "This is Craig Trumbull speaking. I am the Commodore of this fleet and the Captain commanding this vessel. The CSS Scipio Africanus."

  V

  "I feel like an idiot," muttered Commodore Trumbull. His eyes, fixed on the huge viewscreen, shifted back and forth from the sleek, gleaming Guild vessel to the nearest of the newly arrived ships of his flotilla.

  The Confederation Space Ship Quinctius Flaminius, that was. As she was now called.

  Standing next to him, his executive officer grinned. "You mean you feel like the guy who shows up at a formal ball wearing a clown suit? Thought he'd been invited to a costume party?"

  Trumbull grunted. Again, he stared at the CSS Quinctius Flaminius. As she was now called.

  The USS Missouri, in her former life.

  "I can't believe I'm trying to intimidate a Guild vessel with these antiques."

  Commander Stephen Tambo shrugged. "So what if it's a World War Two craft dragged out of mothballs?" He pointed at the ancient battleship on the viewscreen. "Those aren't sixteen-inch guns anymore, Commodore. They're lasers. Eight times as powerful as any the Guild uses, according to the transport's computer. And the Quinctius' force-screens carry the same magnitude of superiority."

  "I know that!" snapped the commodore. "I still feel like an idiot."

  The executive officer, eyeing his superior with a sideways glance, decided against any further attempt at humor. The North American seemed bound and determined to wallow in self-pity.

  Commander Tambo shared none of that mortification. True, the Confederation's newly created naval force was—from the standpoint of appearance—the most absurd-looking fleet imaginable. It had only been a few years, after all, since the arrival of the Romans had alerted humanity to the fact that it was a very big and very dangerous galaxy. Proper military spacecraft were only just starting to be constructed. In the meantime, the Earth had needed protection. Now.