With the Lunar defense line broken the Federation fell back toward Earth herself, orbiting not far outside her atmosphere, and there brought into play the dreaded Orbital Forts, which experts had said would stop any force, no matter how strong, that attempted an invasion of the home world. The Orbital Forts, huge, hulking, weapon-studded spheres of metal, did delay the enemy, did scatter and thin his ranks, but they did not stop him. One by one the Orbital Forts were destroyed and the remnants of their wrecks plunged, flaming, into Earth’s atmosphere.
The Federation commanders, those few who still lived, for among the dead were Grand Admiral Abli Juliene and the Chief of Staff himself, threw up their hands, ordered retreat, and Earth herself, as yet undamaged, lay below General Kantralas and his battered, bloody, decimated, but victorious rebel forces.
The Alliance of Independent Worlds starship Guadalcanal, the flagship of General Kantralas, met no resistance as it cut down through the atmosphere, spiraling around the planet, and finally sweeping in low across the European continent. The transmitters of the Guadalcanal beamed toward the city of Geneva, demanding the immediate surrender of the Federation. Geneva replied that the Chairman of the Federation could not be located, that he had vanished during the battle, but that the Vice Chairman, supported by a hastily assembled Parliament, would agree to discuss terms with the General.
When General Kantralas landed in Geneva, the Terran Federation, for all practical purposes, was dead.
Chapter XXVII
Uneasily, Robert Janas stepped from the helicopter onto the roof deck of the great office building in the heart of STC Central. He looked at the needlers in the hands of the guards who greeted him, but the weapons no longer disturbed him. He had seen too many of them pointed in his direction during the past few days to give him much concern any more.
Jarl Emmett, dressed, like Janas, in dull prison gray, climbed from the ‘copter and stood beside him. The helicopter’s commander offered a receipt to the senior of the Pinker guards, who accepted it, signed his name, and took command of the two prisoners.
“Come this way, please,” the Pinker captain said politely, gesturing toward the escalator that led down into the STC president’s suite of offices. Janas and Emmett obeyed.
A few moments later the two prisoners and their guard detail marched into the large, plush office of the president of the Solar Trading Company. Altho Franken sat behind the desk, his face strangely void of expression, his jaw whole again but somehow looking oddly misshapen. There was a needle pistol on the desk in front of him.
Milton Anchor, open hatred on his face, stood across the room. On his hip he wore a pistol similar to the one on Franken’s desk. There were also four guards, wearing the presidential arm band, standing in the room; they too carried needlers.
The Pinker captain stopped before the president’s desk, snapped a quasi-military salute, and said: “The prisoners Janas and Emmett, Citizen Franken.”
“Thank you, captain,” Franken said. “I’ll take over.”
The Pinker captain saluted again, turned and led his detail back to the ‘copter deck.
There was silence in Franken’s office for a long while.
“Do you have any idea why you’re here?” Franken asked at last, his words slow as if his jaw still caused him pain.
“I have a few ideas,” Janas answered.
“They’re wrong,” Franken said coldly.
“I’m surprised we’re still alive,” Jarl Emmett said.
Franken replied with a cold, fish-like stare.
“Sit down,” he said a few moments later. “And be quiet. You’ll learn soon enough.” He did not look at the two men again but fumbled with papers on his desk, making a great show of being busy.
Janas dropped wearily into a nearby chair. He glanced once at the armed guards, looked at Emmett, and then rested his eyes on the floor.
Some had survived, he told himself, but not many. Not enough of the Federation had survived to hold off the rebels, and just enough of the forces of the Alliance of Independent Worlds had survived to claim victory and dictate terms—but nearly a hundred and forty years of war had bled mankind white, had left him exhausted.
And Robert Janas and Jarl Emmett had survived, but perhaps only because they had surrendered to the STC Pinkers rather than being captured by Federation soldiers, and how much longer they might survive was a subject on which he did not wish to dwell. Paul D’Lugan had not survived, nor had Hal Danser —he had died on the floor at the base of the elevator shaft with a .45 caliber slug in his stomach. Juan Kai had died, too, making a foolish attempt to escape outside the Operations building. Syble Dian had not survived—an energy blast from a Pinker helicopter had cut her down on the Operations roof deck while Janas fought with Danser. Rinni and Gray, Rod Campbell, Admiral Juliene… only God Himself knew how many more, they had not survived, they had died as the Federation made its last, foolish, and—in a way—valiant attempt to survive.
Maura Biela had survived, had gone to the STC prison with Janas and Emmett, but rumor had it that she had been released into the custody of a rebel officer, a distant cousin or something.
As for Enid, Janas was not sure. He hoped—he believed—that she was alive. He was sure that Franken’s men had not found her, for if they had Altho would surely have used her as a means of punishment. And he did not believe that there was enough of the Federation left to concern itself with a relatively unimportant girl. No, he thought, Enid is safe, as safe as anyone in the Spiral Arm.
And now it’s over, he told himself for the thousandth time, over and done with, and whatever happens can’t change things. The STC has survived and that’s what really matters. It can endure.
More than just the battles are over, he told himself. The whole Federation is gone, dead, and another phase of history has ended, for better or worse, and there is no changing that fact. The wheel has turned another cycle and a dark age is coming. It has happened before and it will probably happen again, and maybe there’s nothing that anyone can do to alter that fact either.
Rome, so long ago, four thousand years ago, had begun as a kingdom, then became a republic. It had grown in wealth and power, had spread out to conquer and civilize the world—and ultimately it had fallen. Darkness had come after it, ages of barbarism and superstition, and at last something had grown from it. The knowledge and wisdom of Rome had not died with it, not quite. Before Rome fell it had spread fertile seeds that centuries later sprouted—Britain, Gaul, Hispania. Western Civilization had sprung from the ruins of Rome, as Rome had sprung from the ruins of the Etruscans and the Greeks, as the Greeks had sprung from the ruins of the Mycenaeans. Out of the ruins of Rome a technological civilization had grown such as none the world had seen before, a civilization with its faults and weaknesses, with its superstitions and ignorances, but one that believed in freedom and honor and a rational, inquiring mind; one that reached for the stars.
It, too, had died, had grown weak and decadent; had lost its dreams and fallen into darkness before the barbarian hordes. Out of that darkness, out of more decades of barbarism, had risen still another civilization, a planet-wide society that remembered and honored the heritage of the West, that climbed again for the stars—and reached them. Terran civilization had broken the barriers that held Man shackled to his tiny system of worlds and had given him the galaxy. The Solar Trading Company had played a great part in that conquest—and perhaps it was the true heir of the West.
Now the Terran Federation, having spread across the worlds of a thousand stars, having breathed into them the life and mind of mankind, had grown corrupt, had violated its heritage, and its day upon the stage of history was past. It too had come to an end.
So the darkness came once again, swallowing up the past. But the heritage would not die in the darkness. The genius of Man to rise, phoenix-like, from his own destruction would keep alive this heritage, and one day—not a century, perhaps not even five centuries, perhaps ten centuries from now—it would r
ise again, build again, conquer itself and the universe that opposed it.
Perhaps there was nothing Robert Janas or any other man could do to stop that inexorable march of history. Perhaps it was so and nothing could be done to change it, nothing now. But—and this was his hope, his prayer, the dream on which he had staked his life—but perhaps the Solar Trading Company could survive the darkness, could endure, could keep commerce alive between the stars while darkness lay across Man’s Spiral Arm, could carry a spark of life, the trade of ideas and goods, between the stars so that men would know that there were still other worlds and other men, so that the darkness would be shorter and less intolerable. He did not know. He could only hope. And he was too realistic a man to think that he could determine or even predict how men would live fifty generations hence. That determination was left to his descendants, but he believed, as he looked back across Man’s chaotic, glorious history, that a better world would arise than the one in which he had lived. Maybe men could never reach perfection, whatever that was, he told himself, but it was to Man’s everlasting glory that he did not cease to try, that he kept on dreaming and kept on battling to see that his dreams came to fruition.
Janas remembered a line from an ancient poem, written back before the ships from Earth had climbed toward the stars, and it went something like this: “Each age is a dream that is dying, or one that is coming to birth.”
So it was with Janas’ age. A dream was dying, was dead, but the next age, the one that followed his, would be one that was coming to birth. And that was sufficient.
There was a buzz from the communicator in Altho Franken’s desk. The president of the Solar Trading Company jumped, then bent forward to stab the button.
“Yes,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“Citizen Altho Franken?” asked a voice from the communicator.
“Yes, it is,” Franken said. Janas saw Franken’s hand shake as he reached for a cigar.
“General Henri Kantralas calling.”
“Put him on,” Franken said, taking a deep breath.
“Citizen Franken?” came a deep, booming voice from the communicator.
Janas wished that he could see the recessed screen and the face of the man who had beaten the Federation.
Franken nodded.
“Allow me to congratulate you, Citizen Franken,” the general’s voice said. “You showed great wisdom in maintaining the Solar Trading Company’s neutrality.”
Franken said, “Thank you, General.”
“Let me come straight to the point, citizen.”
“P-please do, General,” Franken stammered, and looked up at Janas.
“I had my aide arrange this call for a specific reason, Citizen Franken,” the general went on. “The STC is the only recognized neutral body left. Both myself and the Acting Chairman have agreed that we would like the Solar Trading Company to act as an impartial go-between and witness during our negotiations. Is the Solar Trading Company willing to carry out this function?”
“Why, yes, General,” Franken said, something like relief coming across his face.
“Very good,” General Kantralas said. He paused for a moment. “Two of your employees have been highly recommended to me. May I suggest that you appoint them as your agents?”
Franken looked at Janas, then at Emmett, puzzlement on his face. “Please do, General,” he said after a while, his voice hesitant and reserved.
“Thank you, Citizen,” the general’s voice said pleasantly. “You have a—” He paused for a moment, “—a Captain Robert Janas and a Citizen Jarl Emmett in your employ, I believe. My aide suggested that they be present at this conversation.”
“But, general,” Franken almost yelled, “these men are criminals. They’re reb…”
“Citizen Franken,” Kantralas said, his voice suddenly hard and firm, “I am sure that you are well aware of the joint amnesty issued by both the Alliance and the Federation. This amnesty covers all persons involved in the so-called Rebellion, on either side, except for a few war criminals.”
“General…” Franken tried to speak.
“Perhaps you do not feel that these gentlemen are covered by the amnesty, Citizen. Surely they can’t be considered war criminals.”
“Well,” Franken said, “I don’t see…”
“Perhaps you would care to try their cases in a court of law?” The general’s voice held a subdued threat.
“No, General,” Franken said. “Of course not.”
“Very good. Are they present?”
“Yes,” Franken said with a sigh, gesturing for Janas and Emmett to come behind the desk so that they could see the general’s face in the 3-V and be seen by him.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the general said. “Are you willing to serve in this capacity?”
“Very willing, sir,” Janas answered for both of them, looking into the deep eyes of that man who somehow reminded him of Michelangelo’s Moses.
‘Would you please come to Geneva at your earliest convenience?” General Kantralas asked.
While Franken stammered affirmative replies for them, and Milton Anchor glared in anger, Janas exchanged puzzled looks with Emmett. Each replied with a shrug. They did not know how much Kantralas knew of them, but it was enough. They were grateful.
Janas turned as Franken concluded his conversation with the general and looked out through the window into the darkening sky, a sky where, one after another, stars were beginning to show, a sky filling with the stars that were Man’s inheritance.
The death pangs of the old civilization were not over yet, he thought, and probably would not be over within his lifetime. And he would never live to see the birth pangs of the next. But so be it.
Out There, in that inverted bowl of stars, mankind and his strange, sometimes paradoxical civilization would go on—but to what?
The End
About the Author and This Edition
No book is an island—every story has a story. Some stories are better than others. Some are sad, or amusing, or simply baffling. But whether they break your heart or inspire furious fist-shaking, the stories behind, outside, and adjacent to the text are always there, waiting to be told.
Now if there's one thing Singularity&Co loves, it's a story. But this particular book's story is very dear to our hearts, because it's our story too. As it happens, The Sky is Filled with Ships was the first book we set about trying to publish. It was a little over one year ago. Our "Save the SciFi" Kickstarter campaign had just ended. We'd received overwhelming support from thousands of scifi fans all over the world. Our BIG IDEA was actually coming to life.
We'd just told a lot of people that we, a couple of scifi fans with some legal expertise but no experience in publishing whatsoever, could save neglected science fiction titles for future generations. We'd track down authors (if they were still alive), their relatives (if they were dead), or whomever now held the copyright to titles that weren’t yet in the public domain, but were still unavailable in digital form. Then we'd get permission to republish their work as e-books, thereby preserving their stories for the future—before the last paper copy crumbled on a basement shelf.
Our initial efforts were fueled be a few key (if naïve) assumptions: Who wouldn't want their work digitized? Who wouldn't want to give the fruit of their dearly departed's labors a second life in the digital future? But optimistic expectations soon dissolved into a host of real world complexities: unclear language in decades-old contracts, the sting of empty promises that never panned out, made by parties claiming to share the interests of authors or their loved ones, intimidation from corporate publishers threatening expensive legal action—the list goes on, and keeps on growing.
But before we knew to expect such difficulties, we began by tracking down Richard C. Meredith, author of The Sky is Filled with Ships. In a matter of weeks we'd made contact with Meredith's widow, Joy. She informed us that Richard had passed away at an early age (41) in 1979, and she'd since moved on with her life, though ov
er the years she fielded calls from various parties interested in Meredith's work. She listened to our pitch and kindly agreed to think about it.
A few weeks later, as our first publication deadline loomed, Joy graciously declined our offer. We were so new, she explained; how could she be sure we'd follow through with our commitments? Joy was wary, and rightfully so. She'd entertained previous offers to republish or option her husband's work, but they'd ended in disappointment. Repeating the experience held little attraction.
Disappointed as we were, we understood Joy's situation, and it helped us learn an important lesson; saving these texts would be an uphill battle, and we could only win by doing exactly what we said we could, and doing it well, again and again.
Twelve months and a dozen Singularity&Co books later, we got an email from Joy. She'd been keeping tabs on us, tracking our progress over the year. She liked what she saw. The book was ours if we wanted it.
Changing someone's mind is a great feeling. Doing it at a distance via hard work and determination to keep our promises feels even better. And with your help, we have been able to honor authors by making their work available to future generations, while respecting the rights of those who have given us the opportunity to share it. Thank you.
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