Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire

by Jerry Pournelle

  It almost worked. I'd seen Alien faces before, but never like this, never as a writhing mass inside a clear plastic bubble. We rolled over and the Alien was on top of me, but I kept my grip. I could tell it wasn't as strong as a human; the arm inside the suit felt thin, almost skeletal. I held on with one hand and reached for the zapper with the other.

  Two other hands clawed at mine. Without thinking I pulled one away. I saw the third one take the zapper. I had enough time to yell in horror as it took aim at me. A wave of pleasure roared through me, and I gloried in it even as it threw me into a convulsion. It faded, and in a last moment of sanity I knew the zapper had sunk its hooks in my soul. Then there was darkness and nightmares.

  The Alien scientists wanted a new tool to destroy other worlds. They'd decided to improve the zapper, and they'd drafted me to help them. They had me trapped in the back of an old Army truck, and every so often they zapped me. They kept changing the settings on the weapon, so that it stimulated a different part of my brain. At each trial I felt loss, agony, misery, and painful new emotions that I hope will never earn names. I woke up with the sour taste of vomit in my mouth. I was in my bed at home, naked under the blanket. I had a dim memory of my sphincters letting go, and another memory of Janie bathing me. I felt light-headed as I sat up.

  "He's awake!" Janie came into the room and stopped just inside the door. "Tad? Are you all right?"

  I croaked out something that sounded like yes. There was a pitcher of water on the nightstand. I rinsed out my mouth and tried again. "I'm fine. How long was I out?"

  "S-since yesterday."

  "Yesterday?" That had an unreal sound. I felt like I'd been out for days. This must have been harder on Janie, though. Her bloodshot eyes and puffy face meant she'd done a lot of crying.

  I reached out and touched her face. She's almost my age, but I suddenly realized that she carries the years better than I do. Her face has character. Beauty. I was amazed to find that, after twenty-plus years of marriage, I could look at her face and still feel that I was seeing it for the first time.

  I was hugging her and wishing I had the strength for a lot more when it hit me. "Janie. The zapper. It didn't get to me."

  I felt her tense. She must have thought I was crazy. "Tad, Tad—"

  "I know what happened," I said. "It hit me, but I don't want it again."

  She pulled back and looked at me. "You mean that."

  I nodded vigorously and my head swam. "It didn't hook me."

  "Maybe it wasn't on full force." Janie was still afraid of what had happened to me. "Maybe it was broken."

  "No, I caught the full thing." I laughed nervously. "It just wasn't that good."

  "You were scared of it," she said, trying to convince herself that I was all right after all. "You've had decades to immunize yourself that way."

  "Yes." I didn't believe it, though. There was nothing special about me. How had I resisted addiction? Washington had done it, but he— No, I cut off that line of thought. It wasn't fair to him to say he was crazy, and it ducked the issue as well.

  Janie was drained, physically and emotionally. I doubt she'd slept at all last night. I put her to bed, then dressed and went into the kitchen for some food. Michael came out of his room. "You all right, Dad?"

  "Just hungry." I hugged him, hating that scared look on his face, hating the thought that I might have lost my family a second time. Was that what had saved me?

  We had breakfast. I found that all the foods had strong, vivid flavors; the backlash of the zapper had sharpened my tastes—or maybe my close call with madness had done that. I ate day-old bread, dried fruits, and apple juice, and I felt like a gourmet with each mouthful. I looked out the kitchen window and admired the sky, which was filling with rain clouds that I might otherwise have found depressing. I could smell the rain coming, along with a heavy petroleum odor from the chemical works. Amazing, the number of things you can find to appreciate.

  I sent Michael off to school and started on a second course. Washington appeared at my front door as I was finishing up. "It's good to see you back in health, Mr. Secretary," he said. "There have been some developments since yesterday."

  That was the Colonel, I thought, as we went into the front room. Business as usual, no matter what. He sat down, although he held himself with parade-ground erectness. His eyes looked tired; it was obvious that Janie wasn't the only one to have spent a sleepless night. "Have the Aliens done anything?"

  "They've withdrawn to their shuttlecraft. The Speaker has told them that they may not carry zappers among us. They have made no reply yet."

  "They'll accept," I said suddenly. "Count on it. They want something from us badly enough to do that."

  "I agree. However, I don't think they'll leave their lander again until after Weyler and his group are gone. The Aliens feel menaced by them."

  "Tell them to get in line with the rest of us." I looked at him. "Weyler arranged that attack."

  "Obviously. I think he hoped to turn as many of our people as possible into chasers." He looked pleased. "Your actions made that impossible. By the time the Alien finished with you, the spectators had fled out of the zapper's range."

  That gave me a good feeling, the sort you can't get from a zapper or anything else. "I think he wanted something else, Colonel. Weyler didn't signal for the attack until after you were inside his ring of warriors. The purpose must have been to have the Alien zap you. If you were incapacitated, or changed into a chaser, we'd lose our best soldier. It would blow morale to hell, too."

  He nodded at the logic. "It fits with the remark he made the other day. Evidently Weyler knows I have been zapped before. I suppose you weren't the only witness at the Battle of Chicago. No matter. It is obvious that neither of us are addicted."

  "No." I had a sudden qualm. What would I do the next time I saw an Alien with a zapper? I hoped I'd never have to find out. "What's Weyler done lately?"

  "After the attack a runner arrived from his homeland. He sent a messenger back a while later. I've no idea what the message said."

  "Ditto. Whatever it was, it'll take a couple of days for it to reach his home." I shook my head. "There's one bright spot to all of this. If the Aliens stay holed up while Weyler's around, we'll only have to face one problem at a time."

  "Possibly," the Colonel said. "But I feel that we must deal with the Aliens before we can deal with Weyler. A session of the Legislature has been scheduled for tomorrow to discuss the matter."

  "I hope I have something to say to them." I scratched my chin, feeling the stubble. "Colonel, can you think of any alternative to war?"

  "No, sir, I can't—but then my job is war. I do not permit myself to become involved in the decision-making process, as you know."

  That was as close to a rebuke as I'd ever heard from him. It also explained some things. Washington knew that he was mentally unbalanced, and he confined himself to activities where he would be harmless, or useful. He avoided areas where he didn't trust his judgment.

  He thinks of himself as a weapon, I thought as we left my home. A tool. The only way he could cope with his past was by letting other people assume the responsibility for his actions. That put the responsibility for anything he did square on my shoulders.

  We were three paces outside the door when Washington grabbed my arm. He reached for his pistol, then stopped as one of Weyler's warriors rose out of the shrubbery. The war-paint on his face hid his expression well, and he walked away in silence.

  "They're too damned elusive for us," Washington said. "We can't confine them to their bivouac and we can't track each of them. That surely figures in Weyler's plans."

  "It makes it damned easy for him to spy on us," I said. I wondered what this one had been looking for. Later it would occur to me that he had seen the obvious: the zapper had had no effect on me. That, too, would figure in Weyler's plans.

  I met a lot of people as I walked to the government office building. A politician never complains about attention, but it di
dn't take too long for me to figure out what was happening, and I started judging people's reactions. I'd say half of them wanted to know if I'd turned into a chaser, while the other half took me as proof that the zapper wasn't as formidable as legend had it. I think Gwen was solidly in the second camp. She seemed happy to see me up and around, although we didn't get the chance to talk much.

  The rain started around the time I entered my office. It built up rapidly, and it was coming down in sheets when the Alien walked into the room.

  I looked it over carefully. Its silver suit was bone dry, which didn't impress me. It was wearing the same belt as the one who'd visited me yesterday, which told me nothing. The holster was empty, as the Speaker had ordered, although any of its tools might have been a disguised zapper. The idea didn't affect me one way or another. "What do you want?" I asked, hoping that it would understand my tone as unpleasant.

  "Continuation, discussion of prior day."

  Fine and dandy, I thought. It zaps me, and then it wants to talk as if nothing had happened. "Then you'd better tell me what you want," I demanded, as Gwen came into my office, dripping wet.

  "Reiterate, information regarding social disintegration."

  Gwen looked it over, satisfying herself that the beast was unarmed. "Aren't you afraid of the savages?" she taunted.

  "Rain should immobilize one group in holding area. Speculate Woodman will not repeat action prior day." Dzhaz was shivering with fear. Maybe it thought I had attacked it. "Need outweighs risk."

  "I know you're after more than information," I told it. "I want you to tell me what makes your expedition worthwhile. Otherwise, you may as well go home now."

  "Reiterate, information regarding social disintegration. Such information has vital application."

  "What 'application'?" Gwen said angrily. "So ships like the Stinking Weed can do a better job? Aren't you satisfied with what they did here?"

  "Not understood. Request clarification."

  "Dzhaz is playing dumb," I told Gwen, as if it wasn't present. "Socratic inquiry. It's pretending not to know that Scented Vine's crew caused the Collapse."

  At that, the Alien removed its translator plate, held it in front of its visor, then clipped it back on its belt. As expressionless as the helmet was, I had the impression that Dzhaz had just given the translator an incredulous look. "You can believe your ears," I said nastily, "if you have any. Scented Vine's crew engineered the Collapse."

  "Impossibility is self-evident," Dzhaz said. "Task too difficult for small crew, restricted timeframe. Study of social disintegration my specialty. Knowledge certain."

  "Some expert," Gwen said bitterly. "You can't explain it, so you deny it happened."

  "Denial, hypothesis blaming Scented Vine," Dzhaz said. "Crew involvement in events marginal, limited to terminal phase. Did not initiate disintegration."

  "That's convenient for you." I leaned forward, over my desk. "You can explain why your species isn't responsible for what hit us. Honest scholarship at its best."

  "Ritual statement of anger." The shaking had stopped. Dzhaz might have been scared of us, but no academic will take that sort of abuse lying down. "Challenge, prove guilt of Scented Vine."

  "Oh, I'll prove it." Gwen sounded murderously calm. "Fact. Whenever Scented Vine's crew said anything about humanity, they always belittled us. All of their questions implied that we were deliberately backward. When we asked them to explain things they said were 'obvious,' they suggested that the explanations were too hard for us to understand—even when they weren't."

  "Request, explain why known falsehoods, subjective opinions of crew accepted as fact."

  "These were people from an advanced civilization," Gwen said. "They'd seen who-knows-how-many worlds. They came here, looked around, and told us we couldn't make the grade. That was devastating."

  "But it wasn't the only thing they did," I said. "The zapper. People got addicted to it. Scented Vine's crew made a sport out of it."

  "Understood," Dzhaz agreed. "Crew activities on record, ship's log and interviews. Agree, actions unworthy. Request, explain nature of addiction."

  "You know how the zapper works," I said. "By direct stimulation of the brain's pleasure center. We tried similar, cruder things on lab animals, and they became addicted. All they wanted was the pleasure."

  "Explanation inadequate. Difference, experimental animals not sapient beings."

  "That's got nothing to do with it," Gwen said. "It's physiological. Once the brain is imprinted, all it wants is more pleasure."

  "Partial agreement," Dzhaz said.

  " 'Partial,' my tush!" Gwen said. "You never saw the chasers. Once people got zapped, that was it. And when word spread, other people sought out the zapper. Lots of people, all over the world. They just dropped out of society. That helped push us over the edge."

  "Request, number of chasers, relative to total population?"

  "Well . . ." What was the highest number I'd heard? A hundred thousand? "About one in fifty or sixty thousand."

  "Request, this was significant fraction of population?" One of its hands made a small circle in the air with each sentence. Alien body language, I decided: a gesture of emphasis. "Request, chaser subgroup contained philosophers, scientists, artists, social leaders? Request, subgroup made large effort to describe effect of zapper to non-subgroup? Request, subgroup forced others to become chasers?"

  "Okay, so most of them were bums," Gwen conceded. "And most of them didn't care enough to talk. But there was that minister, what's-his-name, and that Harvard professor. They got on the news a lot before they died. People listened to them."

  "Self-evident, few listened," Dzhaz said. "Self-evident, speakers no longer sane. Request, explain why anyone listened, took statements seriously? Request, explain why chasers viewed as serious problem?"

  "All right, I can't explain it." Gwen looked exasperated. "It's like asking me which straw broke the camel's back. The thing is that everyone saw it as a serious problem, and there was no way to stop it—"

  "Request, describe attempts made to stop chaser subgroup's expansion."

  "We didn't have the time to decide on anything," Gwen said. "Nothing like this had ever happened before. We didn't know what to do."

  "Incorrect." Two of Dzhaz's hands pressed together. More body language, although I couldn't guess its meaning. "I speak as expert on field, able to make deductions concerning your past through study of other social disintegrations. Long before arrival of Scented Vine, you had problems with other addictions. Pattern identical to chaser issue. Limited size, most members non-important to social balance, attempts to curb ineffective, situation viewed with alarm. Addictive behavior seen only in individuals who feel society has failed their needs. This attitude, one of many signs of advanced social disintegration."

  I stared out the window at the rain. I felt as bleak and cold as the dark sky. "You're saying that the chasers were a symptom."

  "Correct," Dzhaz said. "Consider fact, you are not zapper-addicted. Additional fact, zapper effects non-physical. Addiction possible only in individuals who lack ability, or motive, to resist addiction. Single exposure ineffective on typical member of healthy society. Exposure not sought by such members, not truly enjoyed.

  "Additional symptoms," it continued. "Before arrival of Scented Vine, great speculation made concerning potential dangers of contact, speculations unfounded but taken seriously, thus showing awareness of social instability. Long before arrival, high incidence of antisocial and asocial acts, crimes, matched by ineffective attempts to restrict. Superstitions, illogical social and political doctrines taken seriously. Warfare considered primary answer to nation-state disagreements—"

  "Enough!" Gwen snapped. She looked rattled by Dzhaz's dry assertions. I felt the same way. Maybe the Alien had learned about Earth's problems from Scented Vine's crew, but I didn't believe that even as I thought it. No, Dzhaz was describing typical events in disintegrating cultures. Ours was merely the latest in a string of intriguin
g, informative disasters.

  You're a Polynesian, and white sailors and missionaries have left your tiny world in shambles. Your one consolation is that it wasn't your fault, that the outsiders were too much for you to resist. Then you came face to face with the fact that your society fell because it lacked the inner strength to survive—

  Hell's bells, that comparison wasn't even fair. Most primitive cultures had fought to survive, and shown more resilience than we had.

  Gwen's thoughts must have paralleled mine. "Maybe you have a point," she said grimly. "Okay, maybe what happened was our fault. But we might have solved our problems if it hadn't been for the war, and they started it. Why should they get away with that?"