by George R. R.
The fleet commander saw more than one grimace at that. The Ugartu had never attained Hegemony membership ... since they’d turned their home star system into a radioactive junkyard first. The Council of the time had breathed a quiet but very, very profound sigh of relief when it happened, too, given that the Ugartu had been advancing technologically at twice the galactic norm. Which meant these people . . .
“Is it possible the initial survey team broke procedure, sir?” Ship Commander Ahzmer asked, his expression troubled. Thikair glanced at him, and his flagship’s commander flicked both ears. “I’m just wondering if the surveyors might inadvertently have made direct contact with the locals? Accidentally given them a leg up?”
“Possible, but unlikely, Ship Commander,” Ground Force Commander Thairys said. “I wish I didn’t have to say that, since I find this insanely rapid advancement just as disturbing as you do. Unfortunately, the original survey was conducted by the Barthonii.”
Several of Thikair’s officers looked as if they’d just smelled something unpleasant. Actually, from the perspective of any self-respecting carnivore, the Barthonii smelled simply delicious, but the timid plant-eaters were one of the Shongari’s most severe critics. And they were also heavily represented in the Hegemony’s survey forces, despite their inherent timidity, because of their fanatic support for the Council regulations limiting contact with inferior races.
“I’m afraid I agree with the Ground Force Commander,” Shairez said.
“And it wouldn’t matter if thatwere what had happened,” Thikair pointed out. “The Constitution doesn’t care where a species’ technology came from. What matters is the level it’sattained, however it got there”
“And the way the Council will react to it,” Jainfar said sourly, and ears moved in agreement all around the table.
“I’m afraid Squadron Commander Jainfar has a point, sir.” Thairys sighed heavily. “It was hard enough getting approval for our other objectives, and they’re far less advanced than these people have turned out to be. Or I hope to Dainthar’s Hounds they still are, at any rate!”
More ears waved agreement, Thikair’s among them. However aberrant, this species’ development clearly put it well outside the parameters of the Council’s authorization. However . . .
“I’m well aware of just how severely our discoveries have altered the circumstances envisioned by our mission orders,” he said. “On the other hand, there are a few additional points I believe bear consideration.”
Most of them looked at him with obvious surprise, but Thairys’ tail curled up over the back of his chair and his ears flattened in speculation.
“First, one of the points I noticed when I reviewed the first draft of Base Commander Shairez’s report was that these people not only have remarkably few nuclear power stations, but for a species of their level, they also have remarkably few nuclear weapons. Only their major political powers seem to have them in any quantity, and even they have very limited numbers, compared to their non-nuclear capabilities. Of course, they are omnivores, but the numbers of weapons are still strikingly low. Lower even than for many weed-eaters at a comparable level. That becomes particularly apparent given the fact that there are fairly extensive military operations under way over much of the planet. In particular, several more advanced nation-states are conducting operations against adversaries who obviously don’t even approach their own capabilities. Yet even though those advanced—I’m speaking relatively, of course—nation-states have nuclear arsenals and their opponents, who do not, would be incapable of retaliation, they’ve chosen not to employ them. Not only that, but they must have at least some ability to produce bio-weapons, yet we’ve seen no evidence of their use. For that matter, we haven’t even poison gas or neurotoxins!”
He let that settle in, then leaned forward once more to rest his folded hands on the conference table.
“This would appear to be a highly peculiar species in several respects,” he said quietly. “Their failure to utilize the most effective weapons available to them, however, suggests that they’re almost as lacking in...military pragmatism as many of the Hegemony’s weed-eaters. That being the case, I find myself of the opinion that they might well make a suitable...client species, after all.”
The silence in the conference room was absolute as the rest of Thikair’s listeners began to realize what Thairys had already guessed.
“I realize,” the Fleet Commander continued, “that to proceed with this operation would violate the spirit of the Council’s authorization. However, after careful review, I’ve discovered that it contains no specific reference to the attained level of the local sapients. In other words, the letter of the authorizing writ wouldn’t preclude our continuing. No doubt someone like the Barthonii or Liatu still might choose to make a formal stink afterwards, but consider the possible advantages.”
“Advantages, sir?” Ahzmer asked, and Thikair’s eyes gleamed.
“Oh, yes, Ship Commander,” he said softly. “This species may be bizarre in many ways, and they obviously don’t understand the realities of war, but clearly something about them has supported a phenomenal rate of advancement. I realize their actual capabilities would require a rather more ... vigorous initial strike than we’d anticipated. And even with heavier pre-landing preparation, our casualties might well be somewhat higher than projected, but, fortunately, we have ample redundancy for dealing even with this sort of target, thanks to our follow-on objectives in Syk and Jormau. We have ample capability to conquer any planet-bound civilization, even if it has attained Level Two, and, to be honest, I think it would be very much worthwhile to concentrate on this system even if it means writing off the seizure of one—or even both—of the others.”
One or two of them looked as if they wanted to protest, but he flattened his ears, his voice even softer.
“I realize how that may sound, but think about this. Suppose we were able to integrate these people—these ‘humans’—into our labor force. Put them to work on our research projects. Suppose we were able to leverage their talent for that sort of thing to quietly push our own tech level to something significantly in advance of the rest of the Hegemony? How do you think that would ultimately affect the Emperor’s plans and schedule?”
The silence was just as complete, but it was totally different now, and he smiled thinly.
“It’s been three centuries—over five hundred of these people’s years— since the Hegemony’s first contact with them. If the Hegemony operates to its usual schedule, it will be at least two more centuries—almost four hundred local years—before any non-Shongari observation team reaches this system again...and that will be counting from the point at which we return to announce our success. If we delay that return for a few decades, even as much as a century or so, it’s unlikely anyone would be particularly surprised, given that they expect us to be gathering in three entire star systems.” He snorted harshly. “In fact, it would probably amuse the weed-eaters to think we’d found the operation more difficult than anticipated! But if we chose instead to spend that time subjugating these “humans” and then educating their young to Hegemony standards, who knows what sort of R & D they might accomplish before that happens?”
“The prospect is exciting, sir,” Thairys said slowly. “Yet I fear it rests upon speculations whose accuracy can’t be tested without proceeding. If it should happen that they prove less accurate than hoped for, we would have, as you say, violated the spirit of the Council’s authorizing writ for little return. Personally, I believe you may well be correct and that the possibility should clearly be investigated. Yet if the result is less successful than we might wish, would we not risk exposing the Empire to retaliation from other members of the Hegemony?”
“A valid point,” Thikair acknowledged. “First, however, the Emperor would be able to insist—truthfully—that the decision was mine, not his, and that he never authorized anything of the sort. I believe it’s most probable the Hegemony Judiciary would settle for
penalizing me, as an individual, rather than recommending retaliation against the Empire generally. Of course, it’s possible some of you, as my senior officers, might suffer, as well. On the other hand, I believe the risk would be well worth taking and would ultimately redound to the honor of our clans.
“There is, however, always another possibility. The Council won’t expect a Level Three or Level Two civilization any more than we did. If it turns out after a local century or so that these ‘humans’ aren’t working out, the simplest solution may well be to simply exterminate them and destroy enough of their cities and installations to conceal the level of technology they’d actually attained before our arrival. It would, of course, be dreadfully unfortunate if one of our carefully focused and limited bio-weapons somehow mutated into something which swept the entire surface of the planet with a lethal plague, but, as we all know,” he bared his canines in a smile, “accidents sometimes happen.”
* * * *
IV
It was unfortunate international restrictions on the treatment of POWs didn’t also apply to what could be done to someone’s own personnel, Stephen Buchevsky reflected as he failed—again—to find a comfortable way to sit in the mil-spec “seat” in the big C-17 Globemaster’s Spartan belly. If he’d been a jihadi, he’d have spilled his guts within an hour if they strapped him into one of these!
Actually, he supposed a lot of the problem stemmed from his six feet and four inches of height and the fact that he was built more like an offensive lineman than like a basketball player. Nothing short of a first-class commercial seat was really going to fit someone his size, and expecting the U.S. military to fly an E-9 commercial first-class would have been about as realistic as his expecting to be drafted as a presidential nominee. Or perhaps even a bit less realistic. And, if he wanted to be honest, he should also admit that what he disliked even more was the absence of windows. There was something about spending hours sealed in an alloy tube while it vibrated its noisy way through the sky that made him feel not just enclosed, but trapped.
Well, Stevie, he told himself, if you’re that unhappy, you could always ask the pilot to let you off to swimthe rest of the way!
The thought made him chuckle, and he checked his watch. Kandahar to Aviano, Italy, was roughly three thousand miles, which exceeded the C-17’s normal range by a couple of hundred miles. Fortunately—although that might not be exactly the right word for it—he’d caught a rare flight returning to the States almost empty. The Air Force needed the big bird badly somewhere, so they wanted it home in the shortest possible time, and with additional fuel and a payload of only thirty or forty people, it could make the entire Kandahar-to-Aviano leg without refueling. Which meant he could look forward to a six-hour flight, assuming they didn’t hit any unfavorable winds.
He would have preferred to make the trip with the rest of his people, but he’d ended up dealing with the final paperwork for the return of the Company’s equipment. Just another of those happy little chores that fell the way of its senior noncom. On the other hand, and despite the less-than-luxurious accommodations aboard his aerial chariot, his total transit time would be considerably shorter, thanks to this flight’s fortuitous availability. And one thing he’d learned to do during his years of service was to sleep anywhere, anytime.
Even here, he thought, squirming into what he could convince himself was a marginally more comfortable position and closing his eyes. Even here.
* * * *
The sudden, violent turn to starboard yanked Buchevsky up out of his doze, and he started to shove himself upright in his uncomfortable seat as the turn became even steeper. The redoubled, rumbling whine from the big transport’s engines told him the pilot had increased power radically as well, and every one of his instincts told him he wouldn’t like the reason for all of that if he’d known what it was.
Which didn’t keep him from wanting to know anyway. In fact— “Listen up, everybody!” A harsh, strain-flattened voice rasped over the aircraft’s intercom. “We’ve got a little problem, and we’re diverting from Aviano, ‘cause Aviano isn’t there anymore.”
Buchevsky’s eyes widened. Surely whoever it was on the other end of the intercom had to be joking, his mind tried to insist. But he knew better. There was too much stark shock—and fear—in that voice.
“I don’t know what the fuck is going on,” the pilot continued. “We’ve lost our long-ranged comms, but we’re getting reports on the civilian bands about low-yield nukes going off all over the goddamned place. From what we’re picking up, someone’s kicking the shit out of Italy, Austria, Spain, and every NATO base in the entire Med, and—”
The voice broke off for a moment, and Buchevsky heard the harsh sound of an explosively cleared throat. Then—
“And we’ve got an unconfirmed report that Washington is gone, people. Just fucking gone.”
Something kicked Buchevsky in the belly. Not Washington. Washington couldn’t be gone. Not with Trish and the girls—
“I don’t have a goddammed clue who’s doing this, or why,” the pilot said, “but we need someplace to set down, fast. We’re about eighty miles north-northwest of Podgorica, in Montenegro, so I’m diverting inland. Let’s hope to hell I can find someplace to put this bird down in one piece...and that nobody on the ground thinks we had anything to do with this shit!”
* * * *
V
Thikair stood on Star of Empires flag bridge, studying the gigantic images of the planet below. Glowing icons indicated cities and major military bases his kinetic bombardment had removed from existence. There were a lot of them—more than he’d really counted on—and he clasped his hands behind him and concentrated on radiating total satisfaction.
And you damned well ought to be satisfied, Thikair. Taking down an entire Level Two civilization in less than two local days has to be some sort of galactic record!
Which, another little voice reminded him, was because doing anything of the sort directly violated the Hegemony Constitution.
He managed not to grimace, but it wasn’t easy. When this brilliant brainstorm had occurred to him, he hadn’t fully digested just how big and thoroughly inhabited this planet, this...“Earth” of the “humans,” truly was. He wondered now if he hadn’t let himself fully digest it because he’d known that if he had, he would have changed his mind.
Oh stop it! So there were more of them on the damned planet, and you killed—what? Two billion of them, wasn’t it? There’re plenty more where they came from—they breed like damned garshu, after all! And you told Ahzmer and the others you’re willing to kill off the entire species if it doesn’t work out. So fretting about a little extra breakage along the way is pretty pointless, wouldn’t you say?
Of course it was. In fact, he admitted, his biggest concern was how many major engineering works these humans had created. There was no question that he could exterminate them if he had to, but he was beginning to question whether it would be possible to eliminate the physical evidence of the level their culture had attained after all.
Well, we’ll just have to keep it from coming to that, won’t we?
“Pass the word to Ground Commander Thairys,” he told Ship Commander Ahzmer quietly, never taking his eyes from those glowing icons. “I want his troops on the ground as quickly as possible. And make sure they have all the fire support they need.”
* * * *
Steven Buchevsky stood by the road and wondered—again—just where the hell they were.
Their pilot hadn’t managed to find any friendly airfields, after all. He’d done his best, but all but out of fuel, with his communications out, the GPS network down, and kiloton-range explosions dotting the face of Europe, his options had been limited. He’d managed to find a stretch of two-lane road that would almost do, and he’d set the big plane down with his last few gallons of fuel.
The C-17 had been designed for rough-field landings, although its designers hadn’t had anything quite that rough in mind. Still, it would have w
orked if the road hadn’t crossed a culvert he hadn’t been able to see from the air. He’d lost both main gear when it collapsed under the plane’s 140-ton weight. Worse, he hadn’t lost the gear simultaneously, and the aircraft had gone totally out of control. When it stopped careening across the rough, mountainous valley, the entire forward fuselage had become crushed and tangled wreckage.
Neither pilot had survived, and the only other two officers aboard were among the six passengers who’d been killed, which left Buchevsky the ranking member of their small group. Two more passengers were brutally injured, and he’d gotten them out of the wreckage and into the best shelter he could contrive, but they didn’t have anything resembling a doctor.
Neither did they have much in the way of equipment. Buchevsky had his personal weapons, as did six of the others, but that was it, and none of them had very much ammunition. Not surprisingly, he supposed, since they weren’t supposed to have any on board. Fortunately (in this case, at least) it was extraordinarily difficult to separate troops returning from a combat zone from at least some ammo.
There were also at least some first-aid supplies—enough to set the broken arms three of the passengers suffered and make at least a token attempt at patching up the worst injured—but that was about it, and he really, really wished he could at least talk to somebody higher up the command hierarchy than he was. Unfortunately, he was it.
