Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  He turned to a stocky, militant-looking woman. "Kuei-Fei, give us your thoughts on the matter."

  Kuei-Fei the complainer, Horvath told himself. He'd never gotten along with her. She wanted his chairmanship, and no doubt Moneybags would see that she got it. As for himself-he'd be better off rid of it.

  He could taste the bile rising in his gorge.

  She got to her feet and began. "The basic strategy has been wrong," she said, "based almost entirely on demonstrations that only a small fraction of the population could get to, take part in. Seen on the telly or holo, they draw attention. And sometimes new members, too many of whom later leave because there is no active role for them. No role most of them could afford."

  Or because, Horvath thought, between the media and the government, they end up convinced by stories of more and more human worlds conquered by murdering aliens.

  It was Paddy Davies who interrupted the woman. "And what would you have us do?" he asked. "Mind you, I'm not challenging what you say. I'm asking for examples."

  She scowled, not trusting his disclaimer. "An example? We publicized the African Bee Project, and staged demonstrations against it in over forty cities. But few attended except for the demonstrators and the media. Those who watched, watched at home, safe from involvement. Most of them thought the bees were a good idea. Even most mainstream Gaians approved."

  Horvath scowled. What do you expect when a movement goes mainstream? he thought. But beneath the thought lay a realization-that without the mainstream, their job was impossible. They needed to capture the mainstream, turn it against its government masters.

  "But suppose… " Kuei-Fei went on, "suppose we'd arranged to have African bees collected? Whole colonies. And had them released in major cities here on Terra? Then people would have looked differently at the bee project."

  When she paused, Horvath had his chance. "They'd have looked differently at us," he growled. "We'd have multiplied our enemies tenfold, to no good purpose."

  Coloring, she went grimly on. "Our demonstrations over capturing and murdering Wyzhnyny colonists backfired; another poorly chosen issue. People considered the dead marines heroes, and resented our calling them murderous kidnappers who'd endangered any possible negotiations. And even though the dead Wyzhnyny won't be seen on Terra for months, word that they're being brought here for display and study has weakened those of our allies who claim the invasion is a hoax. Meanwhile, Paddy's public proposal to negotiate-invite the Wyzhnyny to settle on worlds not already colonized-was lost sight of in the bombast and furor of the demonstrations."

  She turned to Paddy. "The media prefer a show to ideas, but without the show, it's the ideas they'd feature."

  "And what would you think," Paddy said, "of printing fliers with our main arguments? Given in simple statements, catchy aphorisms. And passing them out to the demonstrators, with instructions to use them if questioned by the media. They always question demonstrators."

  She nodded. Her face remained severe, but when she spoke again, her tone was milder. "That might be useful, if the ideas in the fliers are clearly tied to the matter being protested."

  Horvath interrupted again, getting to his feet. His tone was domineering, but short of scornful. "You tell us our basic strategy is wrong, then you veer off into talking about tactics. What strategy should we follow?"

  She locked eyes with him. "A strategy that grows out of one basic fact: We have nothing to lose, Horvath. Nothing except possibly our lives and liberty. If our goals are worthwhile-if peace is worthwhile!-we've got to go all out. Take risks! Considering the time factor, and the direction things are going, BIG risks!" Her words had been growing louder, more combative. Now they slowed, softened. "You've been a fighter all your life, Yaro. You led student rebels against university administrators before you were twenty, and got expelled. Four years later you led blue collar technicians against ISUTA schedule controls, and your people lost jobs. Then you learned to work within the system, learned to compromise without ever giving up. Learned to keep the pressure on, educating, politicking, building inside and outside support, but always pushing. Going for the best compromise possible, and more often than not getting more than anyone thought you could."

  Horvath watched her narrowly. What's your point, woman? he wondered.

  Her eyes had never given way as she spoke. Now she examined the nails on her right hand, fingers curled and palm up, like a man. Her voice became reflective. "You developed an operating style that worked for you." She paused. "And you brought it with you when you started the Front."

  Again she met his eyes. "But this is not a labor dispute, or a political dispute, or an environmental or economic dispute." Her voice intensified. "It is a war against war, Yaro, and we need to fight it differently. Find the enemy's greatest weakness, and attack it. Regardless of risk, because the stakes are so great, and time is against us."

  She looked around the table. "Many voices have urged the government to declare martial law, but Chang and Peixoto have refused. Because they're smarter and more farsighted than those who've pressed them for it. They appreciate that the people hate martial law. For more than ninety years our ancestors lived under it! Generations never knew anything else! Meanwhile they watched their technical infrastructure erode, saw their physical-biological environment degraded to a point where it seemed almost beyond recovery. After all these centuries it's still not completely recovered."

  She stopped, standing silent, clenched jaw jutting, eyes hard, and let them wait till it seemed someone would surely burst out, demanding she finish. Then she spoke again. "We need to create a campaign that will force them to declare martial law. A campaign of acts by individuals and small groups. Of violence. Of destruction." She paused for emphasis. "And of assassinations. Aimed at the most egregious, or most heinous, or most corrupt government war action we can find. At the same time risking a backlash against us. And there will be one."

  Then she sat down. No one applauded. No one even said "Hear hear!" For another dozen seconds the room was silent. Finally Genovesi spoke. "Well. That's said. Now we need to look at what issue or issues to use as a focus, a target, for that serious violence. Which is what it will take to bring about martial law."

  ***

  Guzman suggested accusing the government of planning to use neutron bombs. The nuclear strikes in the Hitler War, the brief and suicidal nuclear religious war of the 21st century, and finally the cynical neutron bombings of the Troubles had made nuclear weapons-nuclear technology of any sort-anathema in the Commonwealth. It was the deadliest accusation possible.

  Paddy Davies was adamantly against it. "If we make such a claim," he said, "we'll need plausible evidence. Plausible evidence! Considering the seriousness of the charge, the public will demand it. I'd demand it. And in all our gathering and winnowing of information and gossip, we've found no whiff of that or any other nuclear plans." Then Horvath stood, guaranteeing it would backfire, and Kuei-Fei pointed out that there wasn't even an infrastructure to provide the means for such a program. When Genovesi called the question, not even Guzman voted for it.

  Afterward, discussion became listless, the proposals feeble and unpromising. Then Genovesi suggested that if crimes against Wyzhnyny didn't seemed to resonate with the public, crimes against humans might.

  "We've already plowed that ground," Horvath said.

  "Not all of it," Kuei-Fei countered. "We can attack the newly leaked loosening in military bot agreements! Loosening designed to shanghai the wounded out of their bodies!" They were, she felt, nothing short of outrageous: reduced eligibility standards for the wounded. Battlefield proxies authorized to "speak for the unconscious wounded." The use of a stasis drug to prolong the survival of the mortally wounded till they could be bottled. Bottled and thrown back into the shame of battle, instead of peacefully joining with the All-Soul. And as an issue, it came with built-in support: some mainstream media had already criticized these changes as designed to allow abuses.

  The discussion w
asn't enthusiastic, but before lunch they'd approved the issue without dissent.

  After lunch they discussed and voted on a change of leadership: previously, the chairman had worn the policy and planning hats, and the vice chairman the operations hat. That was now changed. Gunther Genovesi was elected chief executive officer, which included chairing meetings. Kuei-Fei Wu became planning officer. Jaromir Horvath accepted the post of whip; he would make sure people did what they'd agreed to. And Paddy Davies would be public relations director.

  Of the old "big three," only Fritjof Ignatiev continued in his previous post-the Voice of the Front. Its orator.

  Fritjof Ignatiev, a dedicated soldier of peace, who bore no management responsibilities and wanted none. He was not very intelligent and, remarkably enough, realized the fact.

  Chapter 48

  New Jerusalem:

  Encounter In Space

  Vice Admiral Carmen Apraxin-DaCosta had been born with more than her share of intellectual and leadership potential, and grew up in a family tradition of service in the fleet. Even as the fleet shrank to become a simulated fleet, existing in the real world as no more than light squadrons sent to hunt pirates. A remote ancestor had been Fleet Admiral Gavril Apraxin, who'd served during the Troubles. Hero of the Lesser Congeries, and postmortem scapegoat of the President Akiro disaster.

  In childhood she'd pretended-believed?-she was that remote progenitor, reincarnated-the sort of thing children often play at mentally-but she never thought of it anymore. She was Carmen Apraxin-DaCosta, with her own life to live and her own career to fashion. Things she'd done conspicuously well.

  On her flagship the Uinta, her attention was on something much more urgent. She'd just emerged from her closing jump to the New Jerusalem System, and shipsmind had promptly reported an alien pentagonal battle group-the Wyzhnyny system defense force-also in the inner fringe, only 189 million miles away. At the same time, shipsmind tagged each enemy spacecraft by its complex electronic signature, each a composite of several system signatures. It wasn't as definitive as fingerprints, but between overhauls it was reliable.

  Shipsmind had also registered the Wyzhnyny's small planetary guard flotilla, parked only 90,000 miles off New Jerusalem. It was large enough to be seriously dangerous to a planetary assault, but far too small to threaten her task force. She'd ignore it till she'd dealt with the more potent system defense force.

  Meanwhile she ordered the planetary assault force to generate warpspace and head insystem, getting it out of what she hoped would prove the primary danger zone. Sending one of her three battle groups as escort. She hardly considered moving against the system defense force. Almost surely it wasn't where it seemed to be, or wouldn't be for long. Because shipsmind hadn't registered it in real time; the finite speed of light got in the way. Given the distance, her current read showed it as it had been seventeen minutes earlier. So she would wait.

  She was right; ten minutes later the aliens disappeared from her screens. They were nearly seven minutes under way, almost surely headed for either her main force or New Jerusalem, presumably the first.

  She presumed correctly. In just six minutes they appeared abruptly in F-space, but not all in one place. Their commander realized he was seriously outnumbered, so his battle group emerged as five subgroups, in five locations around the human perimeter. Each subgroup consisted of a battleship, with a screen of what Apraxin thought of as cruisers and corvettes.

  It was a far more favorable tactical situation than Spanish Soong had faced, and Apraxin was ready with more than shields. Six weeks earlier, via savant, Soong had sent Charley Gordon's detailed suggestions and instructions. Afterward she'd spent several days with her AI chief, programing and installing it all in Uinta's shipsmind. That had been followed by weeks of simdrills, as she rode hyperspace toward the New Jerusalem system. They'd emerged in F-space 280 billion miles from New Jerusalem, for an astrogational read and to re-form formations. While there she'd uploaded Charley's "export" system to her fighting ships; it was designed for use without Charley at the helm. Then they'd done simdrills together.

  Everyone was enthused with the new battle system, with the admiral less expectant than most. Simulation was simulation. Reality was reality.

  ***

  Almost at the instant they emerged from warpspace, the Wyzhnyny launched an all-out attack. But except for selecting their opening gambit, they left their actions entirely to their battlecomps, coordinated by their flagship's battlecomp. Even against Apraxin's superior force, that opening gambit provided an initial advantage. But the twists and turns of battle required better extrapolations and coordination than the Wyzhnyny flagship provided. Apraxin's Liberation Task Force won decisively. Of the ten battleships she'd committed, seven survived, along with twenty-three of thirty cruisers and thirteen of twenty corvettes.

  During the battle, several Wyzhnyny ships had ducked back into warpspace, and not all had returned to resume action. When it was over, Uinta's shipsmind "accounted" for them all, based on their signatures. When last seen, those not definitely accounted for had already been rated seriously damaged, and were probably no longer functional, lost irretrieveably in hyperspace.

  It appeared to be a wipeout, but Apraxin accepted her success guardedly. The purpose of the Wyzhnyny's system defense force had surely been to protect their colony from incursions. And given that purpose, if she'd been the Wyzhnyny admiral, she'd have broken off contact as soon as it became apparent her force would otherwise be wiped out. She'd have disappeared into warpspace with what she had left, to begin a guerrilla campaign, harassing and bleeding the human invaders. In fact, that kind of warfare had been her greatest worry-hers and War House's.

  That the Wyzhnyny admiral had pressed his attack till his force had been destroyed was suspicious. What had she missed? What ace had he hidden under the table? Or did he simply lack flexibility? She'd keep her force alert.

  Meanwhile her principal concern had to be a successful planetary assault. Commodore Kereenyaga, in charge of the assault flotilla, had been a classmate of hers at the Academy, and graduated with honors. While Vice Admiral Ver Hoeven, in charge of the escort, was an excellent officer. Each knew his job. She knew next to nothing about the Sikh general in charge of the ground forces, but she had confidence in War House's personnel judgements. He'd at least be competent.

  She turned her attention to the real-time view on the bridge's central screen: myriads of stars against bottomless black. Serenely beautiful and utterly deadly, she told herself, a sort of Uma and Kali dichotomy. But the dangers of the universe tended to be passive: vacuum, stellar temperatures, abrupt gravitational gradients were predictable and avoidable to varying degrees. Sophonts like Homo sapiens, using observation and imagination, developed systems of avoidances and protections within which they could live, grow, and explore quite nicely. Most of the time.

  But within those safeguards, the powers of imagination and knowledge that provided them could also spring all sorts of deadly surprises on competing or disliked sophonts-of one's own life-form or others.

  ***

  Jilchuk shu-Tosk was both gosthodar and commanding general on what had been New Jerusalem. Just now he was peering intently at his wall screen, which showed a representation of the local solar system. Orbits were indicated by fine lines. The primary was near the bottom, and several planets were shown at various removes. All out of scale, the separations greatly reduced. "Jiluursok"-the name the Wyzhnyny had given New Jerusalem-was centered near the bottom.

  "There, my lord," said his aide. Near the top, where the captain's light arrow pointed, a redness pulsed. It looks like a small red cloud, thought the gosthodar, a spray of blood.

  The aide thumbed a projection, and a small window framed the redness, then expanded to occupy the entire screen. The spray of blood became a ragged formation of ships, 127 of them according to the readout. Reducing the separations further showed each ship marked by the icon of a Wyzhnyny warship class appropriate to its mass.r />
  The gosthodar did not for a moment doubt what he was looking at: an alien task force, outnumbering and presumably outgunning the system defense force. Humans they called themselves, according to the grand admiral's chief scholar. It was satisfying to have a name for them.

  "When did they emerge?" he asked.

  The pointer indicated a digital event time posted unchangingly in a lower corner. "There, sir: 023.61."

  The gosthodar looked, then moved his gaze to the familiar real-time read in an upper corner. "Hmm. Less than five minutes ago. Well done, Captain." He pressed a key, and his amplified voice boomed unexpectedly from every speaker in every office, barracks, barn, workplace, vehicle, infirmary, armory… on the planet. "An unidentified fleet has arrived in the near fringe," he announced. "It is presumed hostile. All personnel will carry out their Procedure One duties immediately."

  In his mind he imagined the groans. Most would think it a needless drill. "Supervisors will ensure full compliance," he continued. "Anyone who fails to properly complete their checklist on schedule will be assigned to a penal platoon." There, he thought. Now they'll take it seriously.

  He'd visited the great limestone caves right after they'd been discovered, and had seen their potential at once. As soon as their refugees had been rooted out, he'd assigned the necessary resources to make them accessible and habitable. "Captain," he said, "see to the transfer of my personal goods. I will stay here till my emergency headquarters has been activated."

  The captain saluted sharply. "Yes, General!" he said, and left. This, thought Jilchuk, will be interesting.

  Like all his tribe, he'd never fought in a battle. Now he would command one. The cleansing of this world had been quick and easy, and his warriors had been disappointed. Not that they'd complained; that would be inappropriate. But he knew his genders and their psychology, the warriors especially. Now they'd get their wish.