Asimov’s Future History Volume 20

by Isaac Asimov

  Thus here do we have one of the few transcripts of a conversation between two Speakers of the Second Foundation. It would do no good to replay the tape itself – so many nuances of the conversation happened so fast that to really analyse it and break it down would take a non-Speaker several years. Even the translation is fairly “flat” in comparison to what was actually communicated between them, the translator reported – humans have so much more capability and emotional intensity than written or spoken words provide.

  The two Speakers were walking down the hallway, stopping only to note the thoughts running across Ione’s face, while ostensibly stopping to bow and pay their respects to the Lieutenant Governor. They were playing tourist today. The junior one expressed he had something to say.

  The senior noticed this and waived her right to speak before her junior. The junior one continued on: “She is a most dedicated individual. Fortunate, since her particular abilities would serve our Empire greatly. I would see her in a position of great authority, but not one where she would be visible to the public. She is anxious, wondering what her future will bring. Perhaps leadership of a military arm of the Empire.”

  The senior replied, “She is a firm believer in using violence with extreme restraint. More a position suited to diplomacy than military, in my opinion.”

  “True. But she won’t be happy shuttling from one planet to another resolving disputes. Remember she’s still bitter about the Yrika decision, one we foresaw centuries ago.”

  “Where else would she best serve the Empire?” The senior disagreed. “No, a trouble-shooting position between Zones of our Empire is ideal for the Empire.”

  A security guard motioned them aside threateningly. Apparently, the area they were entering was restricted. His body language was clear and loud: Move away! They nodded acquiescence.

  Then the junior had a flash of inspiration: “What about leadership of internal security? Not the military, but of the Emperor’s security? She’d hunt down corruption within her own department, simply couldn’t tolerate it. And we’re going to need that kind of devotion, especially since we’ll be seriously threatened in 1082 F. F. E. (Fall of the First Empire) Military, but in a sense. Still a trouble-shooter, in a sense. And a restrained position in violence, certainly! She’d be a fine model to build a code of devoted security forces upon.”

  The senior took but a moment to consider it. The junior could see her tasting the idea, rolling it over in her head, considering all sorts of ramifications, generally becoming more and more pleased with the suggestion. Finally, she answered, “Yes, a splendid idea. You should bring that up at the next meeting. I have no doubt the other Speakers would agree with you, as I do.”

  At this point, the two Speakers move out of the range of the holocamera, and the translation stops. Many efforts have been made to find tapes of those two elsewhere in the building, but without success. They have not, to this day, been positively identified.

  The conversation described above lasted less than three seconds, more than half of which was encompassed in the consideration of the junior Speaker’s idea.

  Chapter Two

  “THE MORE THOU sweatest in training, the less thou bleedest in combat.”–Richard Marcinko

  The Admiralty estimated it could handle three, maybe four, major fleets. The diplomatic wing estimated approximately twelve such fleets, maximum, might show up. This figure irritated the Admiralty, and Foundation ship captains prayed no one would arrive.

  Thirty-seven armed military navies crowded the orbital lanes of Trantor now. Fourteen of them carried ground forces as well …

  It was enough to make the most genteel of Foundation officers lose control of their tongues, at least to each other. The captains had the privilege of inventing new oaths and profanities, which their crews adopted in equal frustration.

  “The positronic kludge of the Galaxy!” That was one of the mildest – and most common – the Foundation ships had. And it started from the captain of the Hober Mallow IV, Jose Iscar.

  “I mean, look at that! By the Space Fiend, I’ll bet there haven’t been this many ships in Trantorian space since the Great Sack!” The captain was a native of Trantor. He had a hand raised to his holoradar.

  “Yes, sir,” his executive officer, or XO, replied. The guy’s still too new to this ship, Iscar thought. He won’t tell me what he’s thinking. And I hate having him tower over me.

  Iscar was short for a Trantorian. Most citizens of Trantor would find acceptance as clothing models on other planets – he considered the rest of the Galaxy ugly by comparison. And of course, a fair number of women sought after him, unless there were other Trantorians where he was; they simply outshone him. Which was why he didn’t go drinking with his chief engineer. But on the whole, he just didn’t have love for ladies not from home – and those from home didn’t have love for him.

  To use the enlisted crew’s slang, he thought it sucked vacuum. But at least he’d gotten shore leave with his mother.

  Nine days ago, the Royal Space Forces of Yrika had shown up. His leave had ended then. Oh, he’d resisted the order – who wouldn’t? – but he knew his ship needed him. So he went, back into orbit, to assume the role of a security guard over a planet.

  And so, for nine days now, they’d been running limited drills. They played wargames against other fleets, a dangerous practice even in peacetime. No shots were fired, not even test drones, but lots and lots of weapons targeting drills and evasive maneuvers. Lots of intelligence gathering on their electronic sensing equipment, too. At least once a day, the entire ship went to battle stations to test damage control ability. Three hours ago, they’d completed their second battle stations of the day. For some reason, Iscar felt like doing it again. He wanted to raise the standards for his men. Besides, all the other drills had been planned. Best to see if his own training crew could improvise.

  In a loud voice, he said, “Petty Officer of the Watch, sound General Quarters. This is a drill against close contact with a UFO.”

  “General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations. Up, forward to starboard; down, aft to port. Reason for general quarters is unidentified spacecraft, closing fast. This is a drill.” The petty officer of the watch, or POOW, repeated the order twice over the ship’s intercom system, complete with alarm klaxons.

  Three minutes later, the captain asked, “Status of battle stations?”

  POOW replied, “Damage Control Station Foxtrot has not reported in yet, sir, nor has Engineering.”

  “For the love of … GET ME THE ENGINEER!!!”

  The POOW flinched. He was a new one to the bridge watch, Iscar remembered. Iscar didn’t even know his name yet.

  “Chief engineer, please contact the bridge.”

  The captain timed it: it was eighty-four seconds before the engineer called. “Damn it, Palver, what in the Galaxy is taking your department so long to report ready? That’s four times in a row now! What’s your status?”

  “Engineering department is fully manned at battle stations, sir,” the engineer replied tightly.

  The POOW heard this, and announced, “General quarters time plus five: the ship is manned and ready.”

  “Did you hear that, Palver? Five minutes! Petty Officer, when did Foxtrot report in?”

  “At time plus three minutes, six seconds, sir.”

  “Which means Engineering was the slowest check-in by over a minute! That’s unacceptable, Palver – and in the next drill, your men had better be in place in under three minutes, is that clear?”

  “As transparent aluminum, sir.”

  “Contact!” the radar chief reported. He’d shown up early enough in the drill to hear the captain’s direct order: Simulate an approach. “Contact bearing two-three-one mark six-five, closing fast. Will approach to within 300 meters, sir, on present course and speed.”

  “Very well,” was his only reply. The XO rattled off a series of orders, however.

  “Weapons, lock on target. Commu
nications, initiate jamming of search radars. Navigator, prepare for evasive maneuvers. Radar, report all contacts.”

  The captain watched this drill silently, while men and women scrambled to fill these orders. Even if the target was only being simulated on holoradars and computer screens, they had to keep an eye out for neighboring ships, real ships that were allies only by treaty, if that.

  Finally he gave the order, “Secure from general quarters. Set condition two.” The POOW relayed the order. He told his XO, “Join me in my cabin. Ops,” his operations officer, “you too.”

  In the crew’s mess, normally a noisy area, conversations were decidedly muted. The senior cook examined the eyes of her customers. She saw a lot of tension and stress in their eyes, especially in the way they crinkled and squinted. Of course, they’d just come off a battle drill, but usually only the greenest of men weren’t collected. The whole crew was on edge, she realized.

  So she went over to the ship’s phone system and quietly called the chief security officer to the mess with two senior aides. While the aides stood to the edges of the mess, looking mean, the officer, Ensign Bryce, sat down and chatted casually with the crew. At first, they were apprehensive – why would a commissioned officer talk freely with them? – but they loosened up as he cajoled them, and told him not just in words but in looks how they felt. That’s an officer I’d like to work for, the cook thought, instead of that picayune supply officer.

  As Bryce worked the crowd, calming them down, even getting in a good laugh or two, he was taking mental notes. The whole crew is frustrated, he realized. Too many drills, not enough information. The captain needs to talk to them, throw them a little more spacedust, but also tell them what’s going on planetside. He also took note that Engineering’s check-in was the slowest, because the Chief Engineer was drunk – a serious crime on a military vessel on patrol.

  Twenty minutes later, Bryce was outside the captain’s cabin. He’d complimented the cook on her wisdom – as well as the quiche – and then straightened his uniform to see his commanding officer. He knocked on the door, only to hear a gruff “Just a minute” from the cabin. A few minutes later, the door opened. The XO and OPS walked past him. Operations was lost in thought, while the XO had a nastier look on his face than usual. Bryce gathered the drill had not gone as well as planned.

  “Come in,” Iscar’s voice called. Bryce straightened, and entered the cabin. “Oh, hello, Bryce,” the captain began cheerfully. Bryce was one of Iscar’s most promising young officers – second in line for promotion to junior lieutenant. “Sit down.”

  “Hello, Captain,” Bryce replied formally, even as he took a seat on the large couch. Captains always had the best cabins.

  The captain took the hint. “What can I do for you, Ensign?” he replied in a tone of authority. This wasn’t a casual conversation.

  “I’ve just come from the crew’s mess, sir. They’re nervous, sir, and on the edge.”

  “And why, pray tell, is that?” the captain said bitterly. Not sarcastically, Bryce noted. That meant the captain might listen.

  “Sir, basically, they’re wondering just what the conference is doing. Plus, all these drills … I know we’re theoretically supposed to be ready for combat at all times, but under these conditions the crew is not sure where theory ends and practice begins, sir.”

  “Good,” the captain remarked. “That’s exactly where any military commander wants his men.” He held up a hand to silence Bryce’s protest as he stood and paced. “Ensign, there are a number of sayings that have been passed on over the millenia. One such military axiom, apparently from a Rogue Combatant or something like that, is the more you sweat in training, the less you bleed in combat. When the men cannot tell the difference between training and war, but their commanding officer can, then a crew is at its highest functionality.” The captain took a breath before he continued.

  “In officer training, they teach that the executive officer is responsible for the functioning of the ship, that the ship is ready to serve her captain at will. Do you know why? The captain must look beyond his ship, to the space around him, at the tactical and strategic situation of a fleet. Therefore, when the admiral in charge of a task force gives an order, not only will the captain pass it on to his ship to be obeyed, but the captain will understand why that order was given. Commanding officers have a lot of power – so we must temper our use of that power with understanding. It’s not well known that I have the authority to immediately refuse an order from a superior officer, Ensign – but unless I can provide a concrete reason for that superior officer to change his or her mind, I will still obey that order within a reasonably short amount of time. C. O. s are the ultimate authority, Ensign, and blind thinking becomes our undoing at this level. Because one rash action can start a war.”

  Bryce looked confused – he missed the point. “But, sir, what of the men? Even the seasoned veterans are edgy.”

  “Are there any signs of mutiny, Ensign?” The captain was looking him right in the eye. Oh, he hated that stare.

  With complete surety, Bryce replied, “No, sir.”

  “No signs of mutiny at all … in other words, they’re still obeying orders, just as they should. They’re not griping about throwing their officers out into space, without suits. Which means the mob mentality that they have is controlled. Still, it alarms you, and something which alarms one of my officers alarms me. What do you recommend?” The captain leaned back against the wall, crossing his feet casually. If Bryce wasn’t going to listen to his teacher, instead of just hearing him, then Iscar would pay him exactly the same respect: none. He sipped from a cup of water.

  “I’d recommend we brief the crew on what’s going on planetside, sir. Tell them what our current situation is, reassure them that everything is under control.”

  The captain smiled. Yes, this Bryce had potential indeed. “Certainly, Ensign. In fact, I was just discussing that possibility with the X. O. yesterday – we just weren’t sure when it might be needed. A few days sooner than either of us expected, which is a sign that could be interpreted in any number of ways. But I think that unscheduled drill we had earlier today brought us to this point. You’re right – this is the perfect time, while they’re still tense, but while no thoughts of active rebellion have been growing. Unfortunately, what is ‘going on planetside’ is precisely … nothing.”

  “What???” Bryce’s jaw dropped in shock. He needed to see the dentist, the captain noted.

  “The conference was scheduled to start today. It was delayed one day because of diplomatic niceties – namely, the fact that we have so many armed forces in orbit, encroaching on each other’s safe patrol areas. The Foundation government decided to give the situation in orbit one more day to stabilize, and the Admiralty agreed. No one wants a war, Ensign, but until we’re ready for the consequences of war, we’re not willing to embrace the alternative.” He looked meaningfully at Bryce.

  Understanding dawned. “Peace – a stronger peace, because everyone knows what could happen.”

  “In no unmistakable terms, Ensign. Some of those fleets actually respect and worship power. Personally, I respect it – as long as it is controlled. I’m concerned, Ensign, that some son of the Space Fiend,” and here his tone turned to anger and frustration once again, as he growled and turned to his window, “will be stupid enough to start firing on someone else. We don’t need a taste of that power first-hand, because there will be no way we can stop it!”

  Bryce began to suspect that his commanding officer might not be as callused as he looked.

  “Now,” the captain said, all tension gone from his face, as he walked to his door and opened it, (Damage control should look at that door chirping, Bryce thought) “I haven’t had dinner yet. How did the cook do with that quiche I ordered?”

  Chapter Three

  “I HATE OPENING ceremonies,” Ione growled. Her ornate, very comfortable red chair now felt like the debris from a construction site. “Eight hours of everyb
ody parading before everybody else. And we have to sit through it. I’m going to the ‘fresher.” She started to lean forward.

  “Ione,” Hannor said warningly, a bit too loudly. Any louder and his microphone might think it was speech time. Softer, he said, “Ione, the eyes of the entire Galaxy are about to be upon us. I’ve got to give a speech to set initial rules of order. Twenty-five million planets, each with four delegates. Even with one vote apiece, that is, per planet, it’d be such a huge electorate, that we’d never get anything done. If we don’t regulate the voting, this conference will fail. And I will not …”

  “Ready, Governor?” an aide called out. Hannor and Ione quickly composed themselves into Governor Legan and Lieutenant Governor Gerrold, the ultimate appearance of professional diplomats. Ione leaned forward again, watching the crowd, over a hundred million of them in the Conference city alone!

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the Great Galaxy,” Hannor began powerfully. “On behalf of the Foundation, allow me once again to welcome you to Trantor. The center of our lost Empire, and the start of the new.”

  Ione, of course, knew the scripted speech as well as he did. In the unlikely event that Hannor was assassinated – and such things were not unknown, even in the First Empire’s history – Ione would have to give this same speech.

  Ione listened as casually as half the masses did, but unlike them, she knew he was about to make the first legislative proposal. It was a simple one, and as she listened, the proposal appeared and raised a small stir among those still awake.

  “As you can see on your monitors, I am proposing that our conference, until such time that our Empire is formally established, run at all hours of the day, on six-hour shifts,” Hannor declared. “This is why the Foundation requested four delegates from each planet. Each delegate, under this proposal, will spend six hours attending the General Assembly, as a silent voter of his or her planet’s wishes.”

  There was understandably a good grumbling at that – no politician, especially in a lawmaking body, wants or deserves to be censured. No matter how much their constituents, or other politicians, may dislike them, the right to freedom of speech was not something to be taken lightly. Hannor raised his right hand to calm them.