by Isaac Asimov
Wait a minute. What had he just said?
“… your new age will also decay and fall, and humankind may disappear from the Galaxy, to be replaced by new intelligences that are even now gestating in those countless star systems where the worlds are not congenial to humanoid biologies.”
Hannor Legan and Renauld Forska could only stare slack-jawed at each other. They had heard the same thing. So had millions of people, who were starting to murmur again.
“Our human history doesn’t even span one hundred thousand years, even though we filled a galaxy with our kind. Planetary species have existed for two hundred million years, and passed away without attaining self-conscious intelligence. Do not let the accomplishment of a galactic culture lull you into a sense of security. Become a truly free culture, one which will not be susceptible to psychohistorical laws, but can fully shape its own form and destiny.”
Now it wasn’t just murmuring. Now it was shouting.
Seldon’s voice continued on bitterly, overpowering them all. “Yes, that is my ideal of a mature species – one that does not need to be led by the hand. And yes, psychohistory does predict its own downfall as a useful way of looking ahead, and I do not mourn it.” As he rambled on, the noise level continued to rise, and now angry fingers were being pointed at the Governor’s Booth. At First Speaker Renauld Forska.
“It worked because it counted on the darkness rising out of a given human nature, for as long as human nature remained unchanged. More than anyone, I was aware of psychohistory’s potential for the control of human life by the manipulative, which is …”
At that, a huge roar erupted from the audience. An utterly deafening roar – loud enough to defeat Seldon’s voice as he continued on. An enraged roar.
It suddenly became apparent to Hannor that he was likely the very last person in this Conference to realize how the Second Foundation was acting, and especially how they were perceived as acting. And he had just had a full understanding seconds before Seldon had appeared.
And just as suddenly, a very disgruntled but orderly crowd became a riot.
Chapter Seven
IT IS AN interesting paradox of military life that requires combat readiness at all times, especially from human beings, who cannot individually maintain that readiness at all times. For instance, a crewperson requires sleep. But the ship cannot sleep, and not all of its crew can sleep at the same time. However, most ships maintain a day watch and a night watch – and these watches suffice for everything short of actual combat operations.
For this reason, as all hell was breaking loose in the Assembly, the captain of the Hober Mallow IV was snoring softly in his cabin. His crew wasn’t even watching the Seldon broadcast – instead, most of them were asleep themselves. The XO was in command, and the night watch observed the skies around them.
Exactly 37.2 seconds after the riot began, the peaceful, if tense, situation in orbit began to change. The Hober Mallow, at that time, was well away from the Wye sector, and had no immediate warning.
Specifically, a Vegan delegate radioed his command ship, and ordered them to maximum alert. The admiral in charge passed on the order, and space lit up with Vegan radars, less than a minute after the riot began planetside.
That, by itself, got the attention of every electronic intelligence specialist on every ship in orbit. Before most of them could react, though, the Kalgan Armada followed suit.
Then, the Yrikan Fleet. Something was wrong.
The night radar supervisor on board the Mallow was just then reporting to his XO. Barely ninety seconds had elapsed since the riot began.
The radar man couldn’t even finish his report, as the holoradar set to passive detection began to resemble a fireworks display. “Oh, my … sir, we’ve got multiple, repeat, multiple ELINT warnings coming in from all directions. Looks like everything’s going on alert, sir.”
“Sir,” the POOW interjected, “lookouts report ships breaking orbital patterns everywhere, performing evasive maneuvers.”
“Confirmed,” the bridge holoradar specialist added. Operations was busy tracking them all, but their bridge watch counterpart was able to summarize. “I’m detecting force-screens going up, blasters charging …” That was as far as she got. The executive officer took over.
“Sound general quarters. Captain to the bridge, please.” He activated his personal force-screen.
Two decks below, the captain snapped awake and rolled out of bed. This wasn’t a planned drill. Then again, he thought as he put on his combat jumpsuit, the XO has been planning some unscheduled drills …
“THIS IS NOT A DRILL. COMMANDING OFFICER, YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED ON THE BRIDGE.”
Oh, shit, everyone waking up thought in unison, and doubled their efforts. Drills in military life are one thing – but when the alarm goes off for real, lives are in danger for real.
“Captain on the bridge,” the combat POOW called out forty seconds later. His XO didn’t even hesitate. The big man nearly knocked his captain down as he rushed to the Combat Information Center, his own battle station.
“Captain has the conn,” Iscar announced loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Captain has the conn, aye,” the POOW and navigator chorused. The navigator, who was the combat OOD and training for his own XO slot soon, brought Iscar up to date.
In a nutshell, everyone was going paranoid. Lots of weapons targeting, weapons arming, but fortunately no shots fired yet. Hober Mallow had herself established evasive maneuvers, but hadn’t been targeted. Iscar also noted the navigator did not report any orders from Admiral Olieke on the surface, or any other fleet officer. Which meant they had not received any such orders, and until the Admiralty woke up from their soft beds, each ship of the Navy was on its own.
“Very well.” He said that with meaning. Not only had his navigator given an excellent report, but it was still a cold combat zone. Lots of aggression, lots of showing the banner and talking tough, but nothing flagrant yet.
“General Quarters time plus three: The ship is manned and ready.” Even better. Engineering had come a long way in the past six months – they were now usually the second section to be manned after Weapons. More than that, every ship scanning the Mallow saw a fully armed, fully prepared warship with lots of fingers on lots of touchpads.
“Send to the Alurin: Hober Mallow at Condition One readiness. Awaiting orders.” The Alurin was the task force flagship, holding one Rear Admiral Bol Terrant.
“Send to Alurin: Hober Mallow at Condition One readiness. Awaiting orders, aye sir.” Operations replied. The repeating of orders was a tradition handed down from prehistory. The Operations officer set to work, attempting radio, quantum hyperwave, even blinker lights towards the satellite network that would connect them to the Alurin. It would take some time, however, as jamming simply flooded all channels of communication, except for blinkers, which were hardly reliable in a combat situation with ships flying in the way of the light beams.
“Conn, radar, we have weapons fire. I repeat, we have weapons fire.”
So much for a cold combat zone, Iscar thought angrily. Trantor was under siege once again. Less than six minutes had passed since the riot began.
It really didn’t take all that long, once the hostilities actually started. One ship wandered much too close for another ship’s captain to enjoy, and he fired a warning shot. The offending ship’s tactical section misinterpreted the shot as coming directly at them (an easy mistake to make at orbital speeds and in close contact), and reported that to their commanding officer. The CO ordered fire returned.
That was a direct hit, which earned him three nearby ships’ full barrages. He lived a matter of four seconds – his crew, a fraction of time less. One of those barrages included a stray blaster shot, which struck a third naval force.
From the little bursts, the combat expanded outward like a wave on the surface of a sphere – faster than the weapons being fired, at the speed of light as ships called allies, and as allies notic
ed their friends coming under attack. As it expanded, more and more ships which were not intended targets were attacked, spreading the battle to other fleets at an accelerating rate. It could be anything from a blaster bursting too close, to an evasive maneuver, to the frayed nerves of a gunner. But it spread, quickly.
Less than nine minutes after the riot started, the planet was englobed in a throbbing, fluctuating shell of blasters, force screens, and ships.
“MARK!!” Iscar hollered. Instantly the Hober Mallow executed a dive towards the planet. A blaster shot struck them on the bow – Iscar hadn’t seen that bolt, aimed at a passing Vegan troopship. The blast sent them into a spin along their vertical axis. The force screens up front collapsed, and fully a tenth of the ship instantly became a hellish gas. Including forty crewpersons.
“STABILIZE!! Aft starboard thrusters to full!” If they couldn’t regain control, they would continue towards the planet, and although they could probably survive a re-entry with an unpowered descent, Iscar didn’t want to land on anyone or any city. He’d destroy his ship before risking innocent lives, exactly as he had been trained. “Do we have forward port thrusters?”
“Negative, sir, forward thrust control is inoperative. Gravity regulators are failing – engineering reports high outward gravity on the outer portions, sir.” The spin was creating an artificial gravity at the edges.
“Fire solutions are all shot to hell!” the weapons and security officer, LTJG Bryce, complained. It was taking the targeting computers a few seconds to compensate for the spin.
“We don’t even know who to shoot at!” Iscar replied angrily. “Who blasted us?”
No one answered him – not Operations, not the lookouts, not Weapons. They didn’t know either.
“We’re entering the atmosphere, captain!” the navigator called out.
Meanwhile, the battle in orbit continued. Ships everywhere were becoming scrap metal and ionized gases. One Reguran ship wanted to deliver a blow to their traditional rivals, the Pormona Fleet. Unfortunately, the nearest such target was below the atmospheric horizon – that is, a successful hit would require shooting through the atmosphere of Trantor. A blaster shot would not penetrate the atmosphere at that distance and still be expected to strike the Pormona ship. Instead, the Reguran ship launched a nuclear missile.
The Regurans were not known or respected for their prowess in nuclear technologies. They had somehow achieved interstellar travel with only a fourteen percent success rate in nuclear machinery. Their safety record was equally low. Nonetheless, the missile flew. It crossed into the upper atmosphere, over several parts of the Wye sector, and had just overflown the Conference city when the missile detonated in the high atmosphere prematurely.
Nuclear blast effects, no matter where they happen, are extremely impressive. If detonated deep within a high-pressure gas giant, they could theoretically spark a fusion reaction, and ignite the gas giant, creating a star. If detonated on the surface of a planet, the resulting pressure wave would be as forceful as a wall of steel expanding outward at the speed of sound. If detonated underwater, the energies would instantly be transformed into a broiling mass of gaseous, radioactive steam, miles in diameter and rising to the surface rapidly. Only force screens can prevent crippling damage and probable destruction from these sources.
A high-atmosphere nuclear blast, however, generates a destructive wave of an entirely different nature – an electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, of exceptional power. Force screens, which are almost magnetic in nature, bend sharply or break under the intense magnetic storm. Anything electronic is suddenly hit with a fast-moving pulse of electrons, which tend to cause short-circuit overloads.
Such were the effects on the Conference city beneath Space Zero. The riot, which was still raging, was for the most part plunged into the darkness of interior buildings with few spaces open to daylight. In the center, the Time Vault of Hari Seldon, untouched by the raving mobs, barely scratched in a thousand years of chaos, the last remnant of the First Galactic Empire, was fried as electricity overloaded its circuits and set it ablaze. The holographic memory cubes within the Vault itself were melted by the intense energy surge being converted partially to heat.
Though Seldon had long since finished his broadcast, no one heard his last words, except for the security cameras. In later years, many records would abound throughout the Empire of people wanting to see the final words of Hari Seldon; whereas those who were there had no permanent record of those words, and could not accurately testify as to exactly what Seldon had said. There was so much disagreement that their reports were deemed unreliable to varying degrees, and thus unprintable by the media, as paralyzed by the EMP as everything else.
The blast came as a mercy to the Hober Mallow, which the energy pulse smashed their force screens with, transferring a small percentage of its energy into a motion vector upon the ship. However, a small percentage of a nuclear blast packs a huge punch, and that huge punch kicked the Hober Mallow beyond escape velocity for Trantor. The heavy shock damage and electromagnetic overloads left her adrift for two days, and her captain unconscious for a week.
On the surface of Trantor, Ione had made it to a security post, and full force-screens were in effect. Police forces were starting to move in just as the lights went out. In the security post, the force screens held against the EMP blast hundreds of kilometers above them – barely. Ione was therefore treated to a clear view of the overall situation.
The riot in the Conference city was not something she could do anything about right now – the pulse had hit cameras everywhere, and what cameras survived had no lighting. The police forces were going in blindly.
In orbit, however, there was a drastic situation which she could see – the holoradars within the post had not been damaged. A nuclear warhead had been detonated, someone informed her. That was nothing less than an act of war.
She could deal with a war. It gave her a target for her frustration. “Who fired that shot??” she bellowed, rage amplifying her voice to deafening levels. The sergeants and specialists backed up their holographic logs, not panicking in the least. Professionals.
“A Reguran troop transport, Governor. The Licon.” The sergeant who identified it restored the normal view. “Sir, the transport is coming under heavy fire!!”
“It ought to, the bastards.”
“No, Governor,–by one of their own ships!!!”
“What?” Ione sputtered. This was inconceivable in any modern military, especially one powerful enough to send a “delegation” to Trantor.
“He’s right,” another one chimed in. “The Gra, a sister ship to the Licon, is firing blasters at it. So are six other ships, including our Alurin. He’s on the run, leaving orbit.”
“That’s not all – other ships are beginning to pursue. I count four … twelve … thirty-eight … and rising, ships leaving orbit in pursuit. The Licon is heading for Jump Point Hotel.”
“It won’t make it,” another confidently predicted. Sure enough, a blast clipped one of its engines – not seriously enough to slow it down, but enough to inspire more pot shots.
Ione regarded the overall tactical holograph. She was astounded by what she saw. Ships, everywhere, had ceased their attacks on each other, and were attempting to break orbit and pursue the Licon. Most were in no position to leave orbit whatsoever, many of them hurtling on a course away from the Jump Point, or on the other side of Trantor, but more than enough were there to make their statement.
They all knew that someone had attacked Trantor – and they were all leaping to her defense.
And in that moment, Ione saw a way out.
“Put me on the open broadcast – every frequency you’ve got, unencrypted,” she ordered.
“Attention … attention, all ships in orbit of Trantor. This is Lieutenant Governor Gerrold of the Foundation speaking.” Ione spoke with a tone of authority she rarely used, was really unaware that she had. Her voice was flat, and yet carried the weight of a Galaxy. She paused
.
“I hereby declare the Planet of Trantor to be under immediate martial law. All Foundation ships are to return to orbit of Trantor and cease fire, except to defend themselves and Trantor. No offensive operations are authorized. Furthermore, all police forces are hereby authorized to use whatever means are necessary, but not more than necessary, to restore order in the Wye Sector.” She paused again. “I also wish to ask …” But she found, to her great surprise, that she did not need to ask. Her voice fell away in awe.
Every ship in the orbital zone of Trantor, including those who had broken orbit, had ceased fire of their own volition. They were standing down – screens still at full intensity, but with weapons disarmed and tactical radars no longer searching for targets. The reasoning behind it, however, was quite simple:
Every one of the allied ships considered themselves not an ally, but a member of the Foundation. And therefore subject to the orders of the Foundation.
It was greater than Ione could have hoped for – and yet, she couldn’t deny within herself that it was the truth. This had been what Hari Seldon and her predecessors had labored towards for a thousand years.
A sense of belonging and patriotism to something greater than themselves. Greater than their ships and cities. Greater than their home planets and peoples.
A sense of order. A sense of commonality with men and women they would never meet, whom they knew existed but only as abstract objects, without even names or personalities.
And that sense was named “Foundation.” Ione began crying in joy. She recovered, her voice still wavering as the tension broke. “I thank you, all of you. I would not have believed this possible, had I not seen it with my own eyes. My deepest apologies to all of you – – for I suspected each and every one of you as a potential threat to the Foundation. Until this moment, before me in the holoradar, I did not realize you considered yourselves Foundation as well. Neither did the Government of the Foundation.”
