Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire

by Jerry Pournelle

  I was almost finished eating when Gwen Parsons joined me. "Hello, Mr. Secretary," she said, seating herself.

  "Mulch that, Gwen," I said. I suppose her formality was a way of apologizing for the debate, as if I might have taken it personally. Well, I might have, but I couldn't afford that. If I could convince her that a war was a bad idea, I'd gladly forget it. "What brings you out here?"

  "You, of course." Gwen has the sort of face and voice that make everything she says sound deadly serious. "You know how the vote will go tomorrow, of course."

  I nodded. "I'm still willing to act as though you might win anyway."

  She acknowledged the hit with a crooked smile. "Tad, in the unlikely chance that we win, would you consider staying on as our Secretary of War?"

  I decided not to fence with her. "You don't have your own choice lined up?"

  "I do," Gwen said. "But there are two good reasons to keep you. One, we traditionally have a coalition government during a war. Two, it always takes a month for a new appointee to learn the ropes. We're not going to wait a month to attack."

  "Ah." Passions can cool in a month. She'd want to attack Weyler while everyone was fired up over the raid.

  " 'Ah,' nothing, Tad," she said. "We have guns, poison gas, cannon, even aircraft. Weyler has bows and arrows, and so forth. Yet he's just provoked us. He expects a war with us—and no one starts a war with the idea that they're going to lose."

  "He can't win."

  "You're certain?"

  I stared at the horizon for a long while. The sun had just set, and a few electric lights came on here and there: at the chemical plant, along the Main Concourse, atop the towers of the radio station. Most of the lights were decoration, but they helped show off our accomplishments.

  "He can't win," I repeated. "We have the technology, the numbers, the organization—and the will. If we fight, we can grind his kingdom into a pulp."

  Gwen rested her hands on the terrace table. "But you don't want to fight."

  "It's wasteful. Expensive. It takes as many work hours to build a cannon as it does to make a tractor. A soldier can't spend his time teaching or smelting iron. We're trying to rebuild civilization; every resource we divert from that delays the job."

  "So you want to toe the Structuralist line." She tilted her head back and looked at the sky. " 'Make war only in self defense; let the barbarians join us when they see the virtues of civilization.' "

  I nodded. "Coercion doesn't work—the victims always resent it. The Republic is expanding nicely as it is. In a few more years, Weyler's people will be with us."

  "Yes—after a few years of living with slavery, superstition, and Weyler's version of monarchy. What sort of citizens will they be then? If we don't act fast . . ." Her voice trailed off. She craned her head and looked straight up. "Aw, nuts."

  I looked and saw it, right on the zenith: the feathery shape of a fusion flame, drifting across Earth's sky like a lazy comet. The Alien ship itself was a silver pinpoint at the head of the drive flame.

  After a quarter of a century the Aliens had returned.

  I'd known that the Aliens were real when the tabloid papers all declared they were a CIA-created hoax.

  Marcia, my first wife, had been beside herself ever since the Alien drive flame was spotted decelerating into the Solar System. Now that I was convinced, she could stop quibbling over a trivial point and get down to some serious arguing. It was going to be the biggest event in our history, she said; even if the visitors forced us to take some strong medicine, they would do it with benevolence and in our best interests.

  After a while I'd come to enjoy her optimism. As the UFO neared Earth, the news and entertainment media filled with gloom and uncertainty. Along with were some idiotic speculation on invasion and conquest from space, there was a lot of conjecture about possible dangers to our culture. In the space of two months I heard about every primitive culture which ever collapsed in the face of a superior civilization.

  After all the media hype, Scented Vines arrival in Earth orbit was almost an anticlimax. There'd been an accident on board, they informed us, and they'd stopped here to make repairs. Scented Vine was a cargo ship, going from one unimportant star to another. It had been a long, rough trip, and the Aliens (they never told us what they called themselves) wanted to take shore leave.

  We believed them. It was disappointing to know that our first contact was brought on by a leaky fuel line, but there was no helping that. Shore leave wasn't the scientific, diplomatic, and cultural exchange everyone had envisioned, but it was better than nothing. Like South Sea islanders greeting a Yankee whaler, we welcomed them to our shores.

  After a month I noticed that things were—not different, perhaps, but certainly not right. The Aliens were all over the TV, naturally, doing and saying colorful things. We weren't learning much about them, but they were learning a lot about us, especially our faults and foibles. They never had any suggestions on how to improve ourselves—they would never dream of upsetting the development of aboriginal cultures, they said—but they made plenty of disparaging comments, in the form of innocent questions. Had we ever thought about what would happen if we used those nuclear weapons we had developed? Our cults intrigued them, but why did we allow our shamans and priests to participate in serious political decisions?

  The questions were not new, but hearing them from outsiders gave them a weight they had never had before. Our answers were neither new nor good, and they did not impress the Aliens, who made it clear that even by primitive standards we were fairly inept. The media echoed and amplified their remarks, until it seemed everyone was wondering if humanity was good for anything at all.

  There were other things, worse things. One of Scented Vines's crew, the doctor, had agreed to spend an afternoon with a team from the World Health Organization. It broke the appointment when, on the way into New York, it spotted an astrologer's shop. While the WHO scientists cooled their heels the Alien had its horoscope cast. The networks gave the proceedings full coverage, and interviewed a variety of soothsayers on the technical problems of tailoring astrology to fit an Alien's birth. Someone with a pseudo-Gypsy name was blathering about planetary influences and the Zodiac when the Alien emerged from the shop. It announced its satisfaction with our sophisticated magic.

  What happened next was news. A TV preacher came roaring out of the crowd, shouting about blasphemy and iniquity, vowing to smite the Beast. That was when we learned about the zapper. The preacher and a half-dozen sight-seers went down in convulsions, overcome by perfect bliss. One camera showed the televangelist's face as he dropped. For the first time in memory his fixed, money-making smile looked genuine. The next day he preached a brief, disjointed sermon on the Nirvana of the zapper.

  It didn't take long for the chaser movement to begin. Within a month tens of thousands of people around the world were looking for the Aliens; when the creatures showed up the chasers would provoke the Aliens into zapping them. To the Aliens it was just another picturesque native activity, one they indulged without interest or sympathy.

  More than American society was falling apart. Russia, Red China, Japan, Western Europe, India—no country could keep them out; they landed their shuttlecrafts where they pleased, and everywhere the Aliens turned up they created problems. Things became especially bad in the Soviet Union. Maybe the Soviets thought we were behind their troubles, or maybe they thought we had made a deal with the Aliens. All I know is that five months after the first Alien landing the President ordered a creeping mobilization of American forces. I was a reservist and I was called up, which took me away from home at the height of the Collapse.

  I doubt that the full history of World War Three will ever be known. All I saw of it came one midnight in Kansas. I'd been in the Fort Riley Officers' Club, watching the "Tonight" show. The guest host began one of the stock routines, the one about the Native Chief and the Drunken Sailor, at which point I walked out. The audience knew who the characters symbolized, but I couldn't
laugh with them. I went outside to smoke a cigarette.

  The Soviets must have fired first. I saw the meteor trails of the warheads and rockets as they came in from the north, heading for our missile silos. SAC was on the ball that night, and I saw a pair of our MX missiles take off. Then warheads and missiles began exploding. Somewhere high over the Atlantic, Scented Vine was having target practice.

  The next day the Aliens apologized for interfering with our tribal dispute, and explained that our fight would have endangered the Aliens among us. I don't know how many people heard their broadcast; things had become hectic, and panic evacuations and riots were running everywhere. The government's authority crumbled overnight. The close call with Armageddon had been bad enough, but the Aliens' casual intervention left the government looking ridiculous, like a naughty boy who'd just had his slingshot confiscated by his mommy. The federal government disintegrated within days. The Soviets held out for a full week before falling themselves. I suppose some governments survived a bit longer, until the growing chaos overwhelmed them.

  I understood how those South Pacific natives felt, when their women became disease-ridden whores, and their men turned into alcoholics, and strange gods replaced their old faiths. Like them, we'd been helpless in the face of a superior culture. The fact that we'd seen it coming only made it worse.

  For a while I thought that my wife and child were all right. After all, no A-bombs had gone off anywhere. Even when I heard about the widespread food riots, the raiders and vigilantes, I assumed that Marcia and our baby would pull through. It wasn't until my infantry unit disbanded and I went home that I learned otherwise. I don't want to remember that.

  I saw the group of Aliens shortly after that, playing with a group of chasers. One of the Aliens had a zapper, while the others carried human rifles. They took turns, zapping and shooting their prey at random. The chasers didn't seem to care; their addiction was that powerful. I don't want to remember that, either.

  I drifted for a while—and then I found the Colonel.

  "I expect them to land near us," Colonel Washington said the next day. His voice, normally as flat as stale water, had an odd animation in it now. Eagerness for battle, perhaps, although I couldn't say. I've worked with the Colonel since before the foundation of the Republic, and I know next to nothing about him . . . aside from the fact that he gives the impression it is best to know nothing of him.

  Gwen, the speaker, and I were the only ones in the room with him as the Colonel described the situation. "We have electric power, lights, and a radio service—and no reason to think that anyone else on Earth has our level of technology."

  "We haven't picked up any radio signals," I agreed. Our radio service exists to serve the Republic's communication needs, but ever since it started, our techs have tried to contact other people out there. Being the only enclave of civilization in a darkening world is a lonely feeling. Hearing from other people would have been as welcome a morale boost as anything I can name.

  "We can assume that the Aliens have already detected our signals," the Colonel said. "They must make an excellent beacon. Unless they land at random, they will want to investigate them. And us."

  Speaker Ryan sighed. "In that case, we should plan for the worst. Colonel, can we repel an Alien landing?"

  "I see no choice."

  She looked impatient. "That doesn't answer my question."

  The Colonel shrugged. "I have no idea of how this Alien ship is armed, or why it is here. The Scented Vine was a cargo ship; its crew carried only light hand weapons. We had no defense against them."

  "We had you, Colonel," I said.

  I wondered what the look on his face meant. "I believe my final assault surprised the Aliens. I cannot know. The worst case I can imagine is that this ship is a punitive expedition, here to punish us for fighting Scented Vine's crew. They could be heavily armed."

  "In which case, we fight," the Speaker said. "You're correct, Colonel, we have no choice about that. The question is, what will we do if they show up and don't attack? That could be just as dangerous."

  "No!" Gwen smacked a hand on the conference table. "This isn't 1997. We won't collapse the way the old world did when those monsters showed up—we can't. Madam Speaker, if they attack, we fight. If they decide to play tourist again, we tell them to screw themselves."

  " 'Indulge in self-impregnation,' " the Colonel said. "Their translating machines didn't handle idioms very well."

  "Whatever," Gwen said. "There's no danger of a repeat of 1997, so we've no cause to worry about it. The war with Weyler is our real problem. Now—"

  A courier interrupted her. The young man came in, gave the Speaker a note and left. "Weyler's shown up at Coalville," she said.

  I felt alarmed; Coalville supplies most of our energy. Gwen looked equally alarmed; if Weyler's men had done any serious damage there, then we had just lost more than a war. "What's the situation?" Washington asked.

  "They came under a white flag," Ryan said. "Weyler, a small bodyguard, and some of his flunkies. He'll be here in a couple of days. He wants to negotiate a settlement."

  "He can negotiate an unconditional surrender," Gwen said promptly.

  "He won't do that," Washington said.

  Gwen shrugged. "Then let's shoot the bastard, and let his successor surrender. Madam Speaker—"

  "Cut it out, Gwen."

  "Kate, we cannot afford to negotiate with Weyler." She jabbed the tabletop with a finger. "It's exactly what he wants: to be seen dealing with us as an equal. That'll give him a lot of prestige with the other warlords."

  "We've negotiated with his kind before," I said.

  "But we've always called the shots," Gwen said. "We've forced them to negotiate, and to give up everything we wanted. We've always used 'peace talks' to emphasize our supremacy. Let's not forget that."

  "No one has forgotten," Washington said.

  "Good." Gwen looked at him. "Colonel, what's the best course of action?"

  Don't ask me what he thought before he answered. "The best course of action is for me to follow the orders I receive. If—"

  The last time any of us had heard that noise had been when the last Alien shuttlecraft had lifted from Earth. It was a low, insistent throb, and it made the windowpanes vibrate. It got louder for a moment, then cut off abruptly.

  Kate Ryan got up and looked out the window. "There's a force-field dome on top of Signal Hill."

  Gwen joined her at the window. She spoke with the aplomb that had placed her in charge of the Expansionist Party. "Ah. So there is. Now, what are we going to do about Weyler?" That "we" wasn't presumption on Gwen's part; "we" were now a de facto coalition government.

  Ryan turned away from the window. "We'll wait for Weyler to arrive. That will give us time to plan." She sighed. "I hope."

  "We don't need time to plan," Gwen said. "We already know what to do."

  I was at home, having breakfast, when Weyler's entourage arrived. I thanked the courier who brought me the note, closed the door and went back to the table. "Is it bad news?" Janie asked.

  "Weyler's here." I put the note away and went back to eating.

  "There's nothing about them?" Michael asked.

  "No, the Aliens are still inside their bubble. Pass the salt?"

  "Does anyone know when they'll come out?" Janie asked. "There's a lot of uncertainty, Tad. The Exchange was a madhouse yesterday. Wheat and corn prices have gone up twenty percent since they landed."

  "The Aliens haven't announced any plans," I told her. After twenty-two years, I've learned not to soft-soap my wife. She can pin me down with the same ruthless ease she uses on the trading floor. "Colonel Washington has brought in two platoons to watch them, but they're going to give Weyler's tribe most of their attention."

  She nodded. "Is the Colonel staying in town?"

  "For the duration, sweets."

  "Can he handle the Aliens?"

  "Ma, he's the Colonel." Like most teenage boys, our youngest child has a tend
ency toward hero-worship. "Of course he can take them again!"

  "Right." I finished my apple juice and got up. "I should get down to the Concourse now."

  Signal Hill is the highest hill in the Capital City region. Back in the early days, you could see the entire Republic from its peak, so we mounted some heliographs up there and used it to flash messages everywhere. Now that damned Alien bubble was sending its own message to everyone within sight.

  That sight depressed me as much as the uncertainty. Had they come back to finish the job the Scented Vine had begun? Back in 1997 the Aliens had destroyed Terran civilization with the deftness of a karate expert splitting a log. For all anyone knew, they derived artistic satisfaction from wrecking alien cultures. There was no telling what to expect.