He whipped his cloak of rank around him, tied it with a few quick jerks of his manipulators, strode into the corridor, and headed for the bridge, composing an ultimatum as he went.
Elder Phillips examined the message, and cleared his throat. "We appear to have a war on our hands."
Deacon Bentley made a clucking noise. "Let's see."
Phillips handed him the message. Bentley sat back.
"Ha-hm-m-m. 'Due to your deliberately insulting references to our religion, to your slandering of our gods, and to your refusal to withdraw the insult, we are compelled to extend claws in battle to defend our honor. I hereby authorize the Fleet of Crustax to engage in lawful combat, and have notified Federation authorities as the contiguous independent power in this region that a state of war exists. Signed, Iadrubel Vire, Chief Commander of the Forces.' Well, it appears, Elder, that our message was not quite up to Brother Fry's level. Hm-m-m, there's more to this. Did this all come in at once?"
"It did, Deacon. The first part apparently authorizes the second part."
"Quite a different style, this. 'I, Arvast Nade, Commander Battle Fleet IV, hereby demand your immediate surrender. Failure to comply within one hour, your time, following receipt of this ultimatum, as determined by my communications center, will open your planet to pillage by my troops. Any attempt at resistance will be crushed without mercy, and your population decimated in retaliation. Any damage, or attempted damage, by you to goods or facilities of value on the planet will be avenged by execution of leading citizens selected at my command. By my fiat as conqueror, your status, retroactive to the moment of transmission of this ultimatum, is that of bond-sleg to the conquering race. Any lack of instantaneous obedience will be dealt with accordingly. Signed, Arvast Nade, Battle Fleet Commander.' "
Deacon Bentley looked up.
"What do we do with this?"
"I see no alternative to activating War Preventive Measures, as described in Chapter XXXVIII of the Lesser Works."
"I was afraid of that. Well . . . so be it."
"We can't have a war here. As soon as we saw a few of these heathen loose on the planet, we'd all revert to type. You know what that is."
"Well, let's waste no time. You take care of that, and I'll answer this ultimatum. Common courtesy requires that we answer it, I suppose."
Arvast Nade got the last of his battle armor on, and tested the joints.
"There's a squeak somewhere."
"Sir?" said his aide blankly.
"There's a squeak. Listen."
It could be heard plainly:
Squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak, squeak.
The aide got the oil can. "Work your claws one at a time sir . . . Let's see. . . Again. There it is!"
"Ah, good," said Nade, working everything soundlessly. "That's what comes of too long a peace. And this stuff is supposed to be rustproof!"
There was a polite rap at the door. The aide leaned outside, and came back with a message. "For you, sir. It's from the Storehouses."
"Good. Wait till I get a hand out through this . . . uh . . . the thing is stiff. There, let's have it."
Reaching out with a manipulator through a kind of opened trapdoor in the armor, and almost knocking loose a hand-weapon clamped to the inside, Nade took hold of the message, which was without seals or embellishments, as befitted the mouthings of slegs.
Behind the clear visor, Nade's gaze grew fixed as he read:
From:
Central Contracting Office
Penitence City
Planet of Faith
To:
Arvast Nade
Commander
Battle Fleet IV
Crustax
Dear Sir:
We regret to inform you that we must decline the conditions mentioned in your message of the 2nd instant. As you may be aware, the planetary government of the planet Faith does not recognize war, and can permit no war to be waged on, or in the vicinity of, this planet. Our decision on this matter is final, and is not open to discussion.
Truly yours,
Hugh Bentley
Chief Assistant
Central Contracting Office
Nade dazedly handed the message to his aide.
"And just how," he demanded, "are they going to enforce that?"
Elder Phillips's hand trembled slightly as he reached out to accept the proffered hand of the robed figure.
"Judge Archer Goodwin," said the dignitary politely. "Elder, I bring you tidings of your eldest son, and I fear you will not find them happy tidings."
Phillips kept his voice level.
"I suspected as much, Judge."
"With due allowance for the fallibility of human judgment, Lance appears unsuited to a life of peace. Study bores him. Conflict and its techniques fascinate him. He is pugnacious, independent. He sees life in terms of conflict. He is himself authoritative, though subject to subordination to a superior authority. He is not dull. The acquisition of useful skills, and even a quite deep knowledge, are well within his grasp, potentially. However, his basic bent is in another direction. On a different planet, we might expect him to shine in some limited but strategically-placed field, using it as a springboard to power and rank. Here, to allow him to pass into the populace would require us, out of fairness, to allow others to do the same. But the proportions of such traits are already so high that our way of living could not endure the shock. You see, he not only possesses these traits, plus a lust to put them in action, but he sees nothing wrong with this. Accordingly, he will not attempt to control his natural tendencies. Others of even greater combativeness have entered our population, but have recognized the sin of allowing such tendencies sway, unless the provocation is serious indeed. Then—" Judge Goodwin's face for an instant bent into a chilling smile, which he at once blinked away. He cleared his throat. "I am sorry to have to bring you this news."
Elder Phillips bowed his head. Somehow, somewhere, he had failed in proper discipline, in stern counsel. But, defiant, the boy always— He put down the thoughts with an effort. Others took their place. People would talk. He would never live this down, would never know if a word, or a tone of voice, was a sly reference.
His fists clenched. For an instant, everything vanished in rage. Sin of sins, in a blur of mental pictures, he saw himself seek similarly afflicted parents—the planet teemed with them—rouse them to revolt, saw himself outwit the guards, seize an armory, arm the disaffected, and put this unholy law to the test of battle!
So real was the illusion that for an instant he felt the sword in his hand, saw the council spring to their feet as he stepped over the bodies of the guards; his followers, armed to the teeth, were right behind him as he entered—
With a sob, he dropped to his knees.
The judge's hand gripped his shoulder. "Be steadfast. With the aid of the Almighty, you will conquer this. You can do it. Or you would not be here."
Arvast Nade studied the green and blue sphere swimming in the viewscreen.
"Just as I thought. They lack even a patrol ship."
"Sir," said the aide, "another message from the Storehousers."
Nade popped open his hatch, and reached out. Gaze riveted to the page, he read:
From:
Office of the Chief
War Prevention Department
Level VI
Penitence City
Planet of Faith
To:
Arvast Nade
Commander
Battle Fleet IV
Crustax
Sir:
We hereby deliver final warning to you that this Department will not hesitate to use all measures necessary to bar the development of war on this planet or in its contiguous regions.
You are warned to signify peaceful intent by immediately altering course away from our planet. If this is impossible, signal the reason at once.
Hiram Wingate
Chief
War Prevention Dept.
Nade lowered the message.
He took another look at the screen. He looked back at the message, then glanced at his aide.
"You've read this?"
"Certainly, sir. Communications from slegs have no right of privacy."
"How did it seem to you?"
The aide hesitated. "If I did not know they were disarmed pacifists, who destroy every warlike son born to them—well, I would be worried, sir."
"There is certainly a very hard note to this message. There is even a tone of command that can be heard in it. I find it difficult to believe this could have been written by one unfamiliar with and unequipped for war."
Nade hesitated, then activated his armored-suit communicator.
"Alter course ten girids solaxially outward of the planet Storehouse."
Nade's aide looked shocked.
The admiral said, "War is not unlimited heroics, my boy. We lose nothing from this maneuver but an air of omnipotence that has a poor effect on tactics, anyway. Conceivably, there are warships on the far side of that planet. But if these softshells are just putting up a smudge with no claws behind it, we will gobble them up, and I will add an additional two skrads free pillage to what they have already earned. The Storehouse regions being off-limits, of course."
The aide beamed, and clashed his claws in anticipation.
Admiral Nade adjusted the screen to a larger magnification.
Elder Phillips formally shook hands with his son, Lance, who was dressed in battle armor, with sword and pistol, and a repeater slung across his back.
"Sorry, Dad," said the younger Phillips, "I couldn't take this mush-mouthed hypocrisy, that's all. It's a trap, and the fact that you and the rest of your generation let themselves get caught in it is no reason why I should."
Tight-lipped, the elder said nothing.
His son's lip curled. Then he shrugged. "Wish me luck, at least, Dad."
"Good luck, son." The elder began to say more, but caught himself.
A harsh voice boomed over the gathering.
"Those who have been found unsuitable for life on this planet, do now separate from those who will remain, and step forward to face each other in armed combat. Those who will do battle on the physical level, assemble by the sign of the sword. Those who will give battle on the level of tactics, assemble by the stacked arms. Those who will give battle on the plane of high strategy, assemble by the open book. You will now be matched one with another until but one champion remains in each group. Those champions will have earned the right to life, but must still prove themselves against an enemy of the race or of the Holy Word. In any case, settlement shall not be here amongst the scenes of your childhood. Let any who now have second thoughts speak out. Though a—"
A shrill voice interrupted. "Overthrow them! We have the guns!"
There was an instantaneous crack! One of the armored figures collapsed.
The harsh voice went on, a little lower-pitched:
"Anyone else who wants to defy regulations is free to try. The punishment is instantaneous death. I was about to say that anyone who has second thoughts should speak out, though a courage test will be required to rejoin your family, and you must again submit to judgment later. The purpose of the Law is not to raise a race of cowards, but a race capable of controlling its warlike instincts. Naturally, anyone who backs out of this, and fails the courage test, will be summarily killed. Does anyone on mature consideration regret the stand he has taken?"
There was a silence.
The armored figures, their faces through the raised visors expressing surprise, glanced at the outstretched rebel, then at each other.
Elder Phillips's son turned, and his gaze sought out his father. He grinned and raised the naked sword in salute. The elder, startled, raised his hand. Now, what was that about?
"Very well," said the harsh voice. "Take your positions by your respective emblems."
Elder Phillips, watching, saw his son hesitate, and then walk toward the open book. The elder was surprised; after all, some fool might think him cowardly, not realizing the type of courage the test would involve.
The voice said, "After a brief prayer, we will begin . . ."
Arvast Nade glanced at the ranked screens in the master control room.
"There is no hidden force off that planet. It was a bluff." He activated his armored-suit communicator, and spoke briskly: "Turn the Fleet by divisions, and land in the preselected zones."
Hiram Wingate, Chief, War Prevention Department, watched the maneuver on the screen, turned to a slanting console bearing ranks of numbered levers and redly glowing lights, and methodically pulled down levers. The red lights winked off, to be replaced by green. On a second console, a corresponding number of blue lights went out, to be replaced by red.
Near the storage plant, huge camouflaged gates swung wide. An eager voice shouted over the communicator. "Men! Squadron A strikes the first blow! Follow me!"
Arvast Nade, just turning from the screen, jerked back to take another look.
Between his fleet and the planet, a swarm of blurs had materialized.
The things were visibly growing large on the screen, testifying to an incredible velocity.
Abruptly the blurred effect vanished, and he could see what appeared to be medium-sized scout ships, all bearing some kind of angular symbol that apparently served as a unit identification.
Now again they blurred.
Nade activated his suit communicator.
"Secondary batteries open fi—"
The deck jumped underfoot. A siren howled, changed pitch, then faded out. Across the control room, a pressure-monitor needle wound down around its dial, then the plastic cover of the instrument blew off.
The whole ship jumped.
A tinny voice spoke in Nade's ear. "Admiral, we are being attacked by small ships of the Storehouses!"
"Fire back!" shouted Nade.
"They're too fast, sir! Fire control can't keep up with them! Look out! HERE COMES—"
Nade raised his battle pincers.
Before him, the whole scene burst into one white-hot incandescence.
General Larssen, watching on the long-range pickup, sat in shock as glare from the viewer lit his face.
"And they don't believe in war! Look at that!"
"Sir," said a dazed subordinate, "that isn't war."
"It isn't? What do you call it?"
"Extermination, sir. Pest control. War assumes some degree of equality between opponents."
Lance Phillips, feeling dazed and drained, but with a small warm sense of achievement, straightened from the battle computer.
"I didn't do too badly?"
"Best of the lot," said the examiner cheerfully. "Your understanding of the geometrical aspects of space strategy is outstanding."
"I had a sense of drag—as if I couldn't get the most out of my forces."
"You didn't. You aren't dealing with pure abstract force, but with human beings. You made no allowance for that."
"But I did well enough to survive?"
"You did."
"What about the others?"
"They had their opportunity. Those who conquered will be saved. Any really outstanding fighters who lost because of bad luck, or superb opposition, will also be saved."
"We get a chance to do battle later?"
"Correct."
"We fight for our own planet?"
"That's right."
"But—how long since the planet was attacked?"
"Yesterday, when this trial began. Prior to that, not for about a hundred years."
"Yesterday! What are we doing here? We should—"
The examiner shook his head.
"The attack never amounted to anything. Just a fleet of lobsters wiped out in fifteen minutes."
Lance Phillips looked quite dizzy.
"I thought we didn't believe in war!"
"Of course not," said the examiner. "War, of the usual kind, has a brutalizing effect. As likely as not, the best are sent to slaughter each other, so at least the ph
ysical level of the race is lowered. The conquered are plundered of the fruits of their labor, which is wrong, while the conquerors learn to expect progress by pillage instead of by work; they become a burden on everyone around them; that leads to a desire to exterminate them. The passions aroused do not end with the conflict, but go on to make more conflict. We don't believe in war. Unfortunately, not everyone is equally enlightened. Should we, because we recognize the truth, be at the mercy of every sword-rattler and egomaniac? Of course not. But how are we to avoid it? By simultaneously understanding the evils of war, and being prepared to wage it defensively on the greatest scale."
Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire Page 6
