Soldiers Out of Time
Page 26
“Are you saying—?”
“Yes. Even on their time-scale the Tuova’Zhonglu have had time to mount yet another search, this time for Odin’s ship.”
“If they’ve wanted to,” Modrago said suddenly. “Maybe they simply cut their losses and gave up on that particular route as bad luck. Oh, yes, I know: we wouldn’t, in their position. We’d keep on trying to find out what was eating our ships. But the Teloi don’t think like us. In fact, by our lights they’re madder than the March Hare.”
“Here’s another possibility,” said Jason. “At some point they did send another ship, and it got as far as Frey. But by then the Freyans, as I suppose we have to call them, were strong enough to deal with it.”
“Well,” said Rutherford, “the one thing of which we can be reasonably certain is that no Teloi warships have appeared here in the Solar System. So presumably one of your two theories is correct, and the problem has been halted, at least for now.”
“Thanks to Chantal,” said Mondrago bleakly.
“Ah, yes.” Rutherford suddenly turned solemn. “I understand how you feel, Superintendent, and we all share your loss. Dr. Frey’s act of heroism will be remembered.”
“It certainly will,” said Jason. “Especially by the Special Operations Section, as we deal with the Transhumanists.”
“As you deal with them? I remind you that you are an instrument of the Authority, and that your function is to carry out its policies, formulated by older and wiser heads.” Rutherford drew himself up rather huffily and spoke with an organization man’s prim disapproval. “Am I to understand, Jason, that the Special Operations Section has now taken it upon itself to unilaterally declare war on the Transhumanist underground?”
“War? No.” Jason turned to face Mondrago, and the two shared a moment of perfect though unspoken understanding. Then he turned back to Rutherford, and met the older man’s eyes unflinchingly. “No, we’re not declaring war. We’re declaring vendetta.”
The air of the room seemed to freeze into silence, and Rutherford could not quite suppress a shiver as he looked into the two men’s eyes and knew that this was not his rite, and that it was out of his hands. After a few meaningless words, he dismissed them.
By unspoken mutual consent, Jason and Mondrago stepped outside. It was a moonless night, and the desert air was chilly, for it was July—mid-winter in the southern hemisphere. It was also the time of year when Serpens, though a northern constellation, was visible even in these southern latitudes.
They looked up into the sky, so clear that the lights of the installation could not altogether banish the stars. Their eyes turned toward the northern horizon.
Jason had never had any interest in descriptive astronomy, least of all from the vantage point of Earth. But since his return he had learned how to pick out Serpens, that strange bifurcated constellation. He had also learned where, relative to the constellation’s stars in that region of the sky, HC+31 8213 lay.
Of course a mere G3v star was not a naked-eye object at a distance of 63.7 light-years. But Jason liked to fancy that if he stared at that particular spot of velvet blackness long enough, and squinted hard enough, his sight could penetrate that unthinkable gulf and discern a tiny yellowish gleam.
He mentioned the absurd thought to Mondrago. The Corsican didn’t laugh. He nodded, never taking his eyes off the sky. “I know what you mean. I’ve tried it too, but every time I do my eyes sort of blur.” He was silent for a moment. “I wonder how they’ve fared? I wonder what they’ve built there, in almost five hundred years, with no one here even guessing they existed?”
“We’ll find out. And I don’t think we have long to wait.” Jason drew a deep breath and released it. “Buy you a drink?”
“Sure.”
They went inside, leaving the night to the stars and their mysteries.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For the interested reader, Charles Miller’s Khyber is a lively history of the North-West Frontier of British India. (The subtitle, The Story of an Imperial Migraine, pretty much sets the tone.) And Captain H. L. Nevill’s Campaigns on the North-West Frontier will tell you at least as much as you will ever want to know about the military details, while unconsciously providing insights into the mindset of British officers at the time of its publication (1904). Speaking of mindsets, Byron Farwell’s Armies of the Raj is a fascinating social history of that unique organization, the Indian Army.
I wouldn’t dare make up Brigadier General Sir Bindon Blood’s expedition into the Swat Valley against Sadullah the Mad Mullah. It occurred as described herein, and the commanders and units I have named actually participated. And it was in fact accompanied and reported on by the young Winston Churchill, who the following year wrote a book about the campaign, The Story of the Malakand Field Force, which today is required reading for American and British officers on the ground in Afghanistan. There is no evidence that he got separated from General Jeffreys’ brigade on August 19, 1897, much less that he encountered an isolated unit led by my (of course) entirely fictitious three sergeants. But neither is there any proof that he didn’t.
I have used traditional words like “Pathan” and “Pushtu” rather than the politically correct modern versions (“Pakhtun,” “Pashto”) because of their greater familiarity and the fact that they better reflect the flavor of the nineteenth-century period. Incidentally, “Pathan” is pronounced “p’tahn,” not “pay-than.”
At this writing almost seventeen hundred extrasolar planets (for which the neologism “exoplanets” has been coined) have been discovered. By the time this novel sees print, the total will undoubtedly be far higher. The debate about the frequency of planets (freakish cosmic accidents versus normal side-effects of the formation of stars) is over. Robert Heinlein was right: planets are as common in the galaxy as eggs in a hen yard. I have therefore felt at liberty to give the stars I have used—all of them actual stars, by the way—whatever planets I choose, within the limits of astrophysical reasonableness. In other words, none of these planets are impossible, but that doesn’t mean they will turn out to actually exist. In fact, by the time anyone reads this they may have already been consigned to the realm of might-have-been, where they will be in good company alongside the Mars of Burroughs and Brackett and Bradbury.
To Rudyard Kipling, and to everyone connected with the production of the movie Gunga Din (including and especially the actors who brought to life Sergeants McChesney, Cutter and Ballantyne), my acknowledgments, and my most heartfelt thanks for inspiration. And finally, to Barry Hughart, wherever you are, my humble apologies. And please, please give us more wondrous tales of Master Li and Number Ten Ox.