There Will Be War Volume X

by Jerry Pournelle

  “Their terms are impossible, as you’ll see for yourself when you read,” said Unduma flatly. “They want us to declare war on Kolresh, accept a joint command under Norron leadership, foot the bill and—no!”

  “But if we have to fight anyway,” began Chilongo, “it would seem better to have at least one ally.”

  “Has Earth changed that much since I was gone?” asked Unduma in astonishment. “Would our people really consent to this…this extortion…letting those hairy barbarians write our foreign policy for us—why, jumping into war, making the first declaration ourselves, it’s unconstitutional! It’s un-Civilized!’”

  Chilongo seemed to shrink a little. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t mean that. Of course it’s impossible; better to be honestly defeated in battle. I only thought, perhaps we could bargain–”

  “We can try,” said Unduma skeptically, “but I never heard of Hans Rusch yielding an ångström without a pistol at his head.”

  Lefarge struck a cigar, inhaled deeply, and took another sip from his glass. “I hardly imagine an alliance with Kolresh would please his own people,” he mused.

  “Scarcely!” said Unduma. “But they’ll accept it if they must.”

  “Oh? No chance for us to have him overthrown—assassinated, even?”

  “Not to speak of. Let me explain. He’s only a petty aristocrat by birth, but during the last war with Kolresh he gained high rank and a personal following of fanatically loyal young officers. For the past few years, since the king died, he’s been the dictator. He’s filled the key posts with his men: hard, able, and unquestioning. Everyone else is either admiring or cowed. Give him credit, he’s no megalomaniac—he shuns publicity— but that simply divorces his power all the more from any responsibility. You can measure it by pointing out that everyone knows he will probably ally with Kolresh, and everyone has a nearly physical loathing of the idea—but there is not a word of criticism for Rusch himself. When he orders it, they will embark on Kolreshite ships to ruin the Earth they love.”

  “It could almost make you believe in the old myths,” whispered Chilongo. “About the Devil incarnate.”

  “Well,” said Unduma, “this sort of thing has happened before, you know.”

  “Hm-m-m?” Lefarge sat up.

  Unduma smiled sadly. “Historical examples,” he said. “They’re of no practical value today, except for giving the cold consolation that we’re not uniquely betrayed.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Chilongo.

  “Well,” said Unduma, “consider the astropolitics of the situation. Around Polaris and beyond lies Kolresh territory, where for a long time they sharpened their teeth preying on backward autochthones. At last they started expanding toward the richer human-settled planets. Norstad happened to lie directly on their path, so Norstad took the first blow—and stopped them.

  “Since then, it’s been seven hundred years of stalemated war. Oh, naturally Kolresh outflanks Norstad from time to time, seizes this planet in the galactic west and raids that one to the north, fights a war with one to the south and makes an alliance with one to the east. But it has never amounted to anything important. It can’t, with Norstad astride the most direct line between the heart of Kolresh and the heart of Civilization. If Kolresh made a serious effort to bypass Norstad, the Norrons could—and would—disrupt everything with an attack in the rear.

  “In short, despite the fact that interstellar space is three-dimensional and enormous, Norstad guards the northern marches of Civilization.”

  He paused for another sip. It was cool and subtle on his tongue, a benediction after the outworld rotgut.

  “Hmmm, I never thought of it just that way,” said Lefarge. “I assumed it was just a matter of barbarians fighting each other for the usual barbarian reasons.”

  “Oh, it is, I imagine,” said Unduma, “but the result is that Norstad acts as the shield of Earth.

  “Now if you examine early Terrestrial history—and Rusch, who has a remarkable knowledge of it, stimulated me to do so—you’ll find that this is a common thing. A small semi-civilized state, out on the marches, holds off the enemy while the true civilization prospers behind it. Assyria warded Mesopotamia, Rome defended Greece, the Welsh border lords kept England safe, the Transoxanian Tartars were the shield of Persia, Prussia blocked the approaches to western Europe…oh, l could add a good many examples. In every instance, a somewhat backward people on the distant frontier of a civilization, receive the worst hammer-blows of the really alien races beyond, the wild men who would leave nothing standing if they could get at the protected cities of the inner society.”

  He paused for breath. “And so?” asked Chilongo.

  “Well, of course suffering isn’t good for people,” shrugged Unduma. “It tends to make them rather nasty. The marchmen react to incessant war by becoming a warrior race, uncouth peasants with an absolute government of ruthless militarists. Nobody loves them, neither the outer savages nor the inner polite nations.

  “And in the end, they’re all too apt to turn inward. Their military skill and vigor need a more promising outlet than this grim business of always fighting off an enemy who always comes back and who has even less to steal than the sentry culture.

  “So Assyria sacks Babylon; Rome conquers Greece; Percy rises against King Henry; Tamerlane overthrows Bajazet; Prussia clanks into France–”

  “And Norstad-Ostarik falls on Earth,” finished Lefarge.

  “Exactly,” said Unduma. “It’s not even unprecedented for the border state to join hands with the very tribes it fought so long. Percy and Owen Glendower, for instance…though in that case, I imagine both parties were considerably more attractive than Hans Rusch or Klerak Belug.”

  “What are we going to do?” Chilongo whispered it toward the blue sky of Earth, from which no bombs had fallen for a thousand years.

  Then he shook himself, jumped to his feet, and faced the other two. “I’m sorry, gentlemen. This has taken me rather by surprise, and I’ll naturally require time to look at this Norron protocol and evaluate the other data. But if it turns out you’re right”—he bowed urbanely—“as I’m sure it will–”

  “Yes?” said Unduma in a tautening voice.

  “Why, then, we appear to have some months, at least, before anything drastic happens. We can try to gain more time by negotiation. We do have the largest industrial complex in the known universe, and four billion people who have surely not had all their courage bred out of them. We’ll build up our armed forces, and if those barbarians attack, we’ll whip them back into their own kennels and kick them through the rear walls thereof!”

  “I hoped you’d say that,” breathed Unduma.

  “I hope we’ll be granted time,” Lefarge scowled. “I assume Rusch is not a fool. We cannot rearm in anything less than a glare of publicity. When he learns of it, what’s to prevent him from cementing the Kolresh alliance and attacking at once, before we’re ready?”

  “Their mutual suspiciousness ought to help,” said Unduma. “I’ll go back there, of course, and do what I can to stir up trouble between them.”

  He sat still for a moment, then added as if to himself: “Until we finish preparing, we have no resource but hope.”

  ***

  The Kolreshite mutation was a subtle thing. It did not show on the surface: physically, they were a handsome people, running to white skin and orange hair. Over the centuries, thousands of Norron spies had infiltrated them, and frequently gotten back alive; what made such work unusually difficult was not the normal hazards of impersonation, but an ingrained reluctance to practice cannibalism and worse.

  The mutation was a psychic twist, probably originating in some obscure gene related to the endocrine system. It was extraordinarily hard to describe—every categorical statement about it had the usual quota of exceptions and qualifications. But one might, to a first approximation, call it extreme xenophobia. It is normal for Homo sapiens to be somewhat wary of outsiders till he has established their b
ona fides; it was normal for Homo Kolreshi to hate all outsiders, from first glimpse to final destruction.

  Naturally, such an instinct produced a tendency to inbreeding, which lowered fertility, but systematic execution of the unfit had so far kept the stock vigorous. The instinct also led to strongarm rule within the nation; to nomadism, where a planet was only a base like the oasis of the ancient Bedouin, essential to life but rarely seen; to a cult of secrecy and cruelty, a religion of abominations; to an ultimate goal of conquering the accessible universe and wiping out all other races.

  Of course, it was not so simple, not so blatant. Among themselves, the Kolreshites doubtless found a degree of tenderness and fidelity. Visiting on neutral planets—planets which it was not yet expedient to attack—they were very courteous and presented an account of defending themselves against one unprovoked aggression after another, which some found plausible. Even their enemies stood in awe of their personal heroism.

  Nevertheless, few in the galaxy would have wept if the Kolreshites all died one rainy night.

  Hans von Thoma Rusch brought his speedster to the great whaleback of the battleship. It lay a light-year from his sun, hidden by cold emptiness; the co-ordinates had been given him secretly, together with an invitation which was more like a summons.

  He glided into the landing cradle, under the turrets of guns that could pound a moon apart, and let the mechanism suck him down below decks. When he stepped out into the high, coldly lit debarkation chamber, an honor guard in red presented arms and pipes twittered for him.

  He walked slowly forward, a big man in black and silver, to meet his counterpart, Klerak Belug, the Overman of Kolresh, who waited rigid in a blood-colored tunic. The cabin bristled around him with secret police and guns.

  Rusch clicked heels. “Good day, Your Dominance,” he said. A faint echo followed his voice. For some unknown reason, this folk liked echoes and always built walls to resonate.

  Belug, an aging giant who topped him by a head, raised shaggy brows. “Are you alone, Your Lordship?” he asked in atrociously accented Norron. “It was understood that you could bring a personal bodyguard.”

  Rusch shrugged. “I would have needed a personal dreadnought to be quite safe,” he replied in fluent Kolra, “so I decided to trust your safe conduct. I assume you realize that any harm done to me means instant war with my kingdom.”

  The broad, winkled lion-face before him split into a grin. “My representatives did not misjudge you, Your Lordship. I think we can indeed do business. Come.”

  The Overman turned and led the way down a ramp toward the guts of the ship. Rusch followed, enclosed by guards and bayonets. He kept a hand on his own sidearm—not that it would do him much good, if matters came to that.

  Events were approaching their climax, he thought in a cold layer of his brain. For more than a year now, negotiations had dragged on, hemmed in by the requirement of secrecy, weighted down by mutual suspicion. There were only two points of disagreement remaining, but discussion had been so thoroughly snagged on those that the two absolute rulers must meet to settle it personally. It was Belug who had issued the contemptuous invitation.

  And he, Rusch, had come. Tonight, the old kings of Norstad wept worms in their graves.

  The party entered a small, luxuriously chaired room.

  There were the usual robots, for transcription and reference purposes, and there were guards, but Overman and Margrave were essentially alone.

  Belug wheezed his bulk into a seat. “Smoke? Drink?”

  “I have my own, thank you.” Rusch took out his pipe and a hip flask.

  “That is scarcely diplomatic,” rumbled Belug.

  Rusch laughed. “I’d always understood that Your Dominance had no use for the mannerisms of Civilization. I daresay we’d both like to finish our business as quickly as possible.”

  The Overman snapped his fingers. Someone glided up with wine in a glass. He sipped for a while before answering: “Yes. By all means. Let us reach an executive agreement now and wait for our hirelings to draw up a formal treaty. But it seems odd, sir, that after all these months of delay, you are suddenly so eager to complete the work.”

  “Not odd,” said Rusch. “Earth is rearming at a considerable rate. She’s had almost a year now. We can still whip her, but in another six months we’ll no longer be able to; give her automated factories half a year beyond that, and she’ll destroy us!”

  “It must have been clear to you, sir, that after the Earth Ambassador—what’s his name, Unduma—after he returned to your planets last year, he was doing all he could to gain time.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Rusch. “Making offers to me, and then haggling over them, brewing trouble elsewhere to divert our attention; it was a gallant effort. But it didn’t work. Frankly, Your Dominance, you’ve only yourself to blame for the delays. For example, your insistence that Earth be administered as Kolreshite territory–”

  “My dear sir!” exploded Belug. “It was a talking point. Only a talking point. Any diplomatist would have understood. But you took six weeks to study it, then offered that preposterous counter-proposal that everything should revert to you, loot and territory both—why, if you had been truly willing to cooperate, we could have settled the terms in a month!”

  “As you like, Your Dominance,” said Rusch carelessly.

  “It’s all past now. There are only these questions of troop transport and prisoners, then we’re in total agreement.”

  Klerak Belug narrowed his eyes and rubbed his chin with one outsize hand. “I do not comprehend,” he said, “and neither do my naval officers. We have regular transports for your men, nothing extraordinary in the way of comfort, to be sure, but infinitely more suitable for so long a voyage than…than the naval units you insist we use. Don’t you understand? A transport is for carrying men or cargo; a ship of the line is to fight or convoy. You do not mix the functions!”

  “I do, Your Dominance,” said Rusch. “As many of my soldiers as possible are going to travel on regular warships furnished by Kolresh, and there are going to be Double Kingdom naval personnel with them for liaison.”

  “But–” Belug’s fist closed on his wineglass as if to splinter it. “Why?” he roared.

  “My representatives have explained it a hundred times,” said Rusch wearily. “To put it bluntly, I don’t trust you. If…oh, let us say there should be disagreement between us while the armada is en route…well, a transport ship is easily replaced, after its convoy vessels have blown it up. The fighting craft of Kolresh are a better hostage for your good behavior.” He struck a light to his pipe. “Naturally, you can’t take our whole fifty-million-man expeditionary force on your battle wagons; but I want soldiers on every warship as well as in the transports.”

  Belug shook his ginger head. “No.”

  “Come now,” said Rusch. “Your spies have been active enough on Norstad and Ostarik. Have you found any reason to doubt my intentions? Bearing in mind that an army the size of ours cannot be mobilized for a given operation without a great many people knowing it.”

  “Yes, yes,” grumbled Belug. “Granted.” He smiled, a sharp flash of teeth. “But the upper hand is mine, Your Lordship. I can wait indefinitely to attack Earth. You can’t.”

  “Eh?” Rusch drew hard on his pipe.

  “In the last analysis, even dictators rely on popular support. My Intelligence tells me you are rapidly losing yours. The queen has not spoken to you for a year, has she? And there are many Norrons whose first loyalty is to the Crown. As the thought of war with Earth seeps in, as men have time to comprehend how little they like the idea, time to see through your present anti-Terrestrial propaganda—they grow angry. Already they mutter about you in the beer halls and the officers’ clubs, they whisper in ministry cloakrooms. My agents have heard.

  “Your personal cadre of young key officers are the only ones left with unquestioning loyalty to you. Let discontent grow just a little more, let open revolt break out, and your followers will
be hanged from the lamp posts.

  “You can’t delay much longer.”

  Rusch made no reply for a while. Then he sat up, his monocle glittering like a cold round window on winter.

  “I can always call off this plan and resume the normal state of affairs,” he snapped.

  Belug flushed red. “War with Kolresh again? It would take you too long to shift gears—to reorganize.”

  “It would not. Our war college has prepared war plans for all foreseeable combinations of circumstances. If I cannot come to terms with you, another war plan goes into effect. And obviously, it will have popular enthusiasm behind it!”

  He fixed the Overman with a fish-pale eye and continued in icy tones: “After all, Your Dominance, I would prefer to fight you. The only thing I would enjoy more would be to hunt you with hounds. Seven hundred years have shown that to be impossible. I opened negotiations to make the best of an evil bargain—since you cannot be conquered, it will pay better to join with you on a course of mutually profitable imperialism.

  “But if your stubbornness prevents an agreement, I will declare war on you in the usual manner and be no worse off than I was. The choice is, therefore, yours.”

  Belug swallowed. Even his guards lost some of their blankness. One does not speak in that fashion across the negotiators’ table.

  Finally, only his lips stirring, he said: “Your frankness is appreciated, my lord. Some day I would like to discuss that aspect further. As for now, though…yes, I can see your point. I am prepared to admit some of your troops to our ships of the line.” After another moment, still sitting like a stone idol, he added: “But this question of returning prisoners of war. We have never done it. I do not propose to begin.”

  “I do not propose to let the poor devils of Norrons rot any longer in your camps,” said Rusch. “I have a pretty good idea of what goes on there. If we’re to be allies, I’ll want back such of my countrymen as are still alive.”