Aftershocks (52 page)

And now Monique’s stare was one of complete bewilderment. “But I didn’t do anything,” she blurted. “He came around here the other day—sniffing after me, nothing to do with you—and I told him to go to hell.”

“He has connections, even now,” Pierre said. “He used them. I thought it was on account of you. If I’m wrong . . .” He shrugged, his face a frozen mask now. “If I’m wrong, I won’t trouble you any more. That would probably suit you best anyhow.
Au revoir.”
Before Monique could find anything to say, he went out the door. He didn’t even bother slamming it after him.

Monique sank into one of the two ratty chairs in the room. She couldn’t believe Dieter Kuhn had done that to gain her favor. He had to have some motive of his own, and what it might be seemed pretty obvious. The more trouble the Lizards had with ginger, the less trouble they would be able to give the
Reich.
Even so, she wondered if the
Sturmbann führer
would come around seeking the hero’s reward.
If he does,
she thought,
he isn’t going to get it.

But the one who came around, a few days later, was Rance Auerbach. He was waiting outside her dress shop when she left for home. Monique’s heart started to pound. She couldn’t help it. “Well?” she demanded.

He grinned. He knew she was impatient. He wasn’t angry, either. “How does the University of Tours sound?” he asked.

“Tours?” she said. It was in the north, southwest of Paris but still unquestionably the north—more an Atlantic than a Mediterranean town. She’d sent a letter there—she’d sent letters everywhere. She’d got no answer. Now she had one. “They want me?” she whispered.

“They’ll take you,” he answered.

That wasn’t quite the same thing, but it would do. “Thank you!” she said. “Oh, thank you!” She kissed him. If he’d wanted something more, she probably would have gone up to her room with him right that minute. But all he did was grin wider than ever.
Dear God in heaven,
she thought.
I have my life back again. Now what do I do with it?

Atvar was studying the daily news reports when he came upon something of a new and different sort. He called in his adjutant for a look. “Here is something you will not see every day, Pshing,” he said.

“What is it, Exalted Fleetlord?” Pshing asked.

“Turn an eye turret this way,” Atvar answered. “Photographs—necessarily, long-distance, highly magnified photographs—of a major meteoric impact on the worthless fourth planet.”

“It looks as if a large explosive-metal bomb had hit there,” Pshing said.

“From what the astronomers say, the impact was a good deal more energetic than that,” Atvar said.

“Tosev’s solar system is an untidy place, especially compared to the one in which Home orbits,” Pshing said. “Imagine if such a rock had struck Tosev 3 instead of the worthless Tosev 4. It would have been most unfortunate, especially in or near a populated area.”

“Such bombardment is a fact of life in this solar system,” Atvar said. “Look at any of the bodies here. The only one without immediately obvious evidence of these impacts is Tosev 3, and that because it is so geologically active.”

“The atmosphere must protect this world to some degree,” Pshing said.

“No doubt. But one that size would have got through,” the fleetlord said. “And, as you remarked, the results would have been unfortunate.”

“Indeed.” Pshing made the affirmative gesture. “And now, Exalted Fleetlord, if you will excuse me. . .” He went back to his own desk.

After one last look at the new crater on Tosev 4, Atvar went on to other matters his staff thought worthy of his notice. Northern India was facing more and more riots as plants from Home spread through the fields there. That subregion’s climate was ideal for their propagation, and they were cutting into the Big Uglies’ food supplies—which, in that part of Tosev 3, were no better than marginal at the best of times.

It is of course necessary to make Tosev 3 as Homelike as possible,
an ecologist wrote.
In doing so, however, we may cause as many casualties among the Big Uglies from environmental change as we did in the course of the fighting. This is unfortunate, but appears unavoidable.

Atvar sighed. If the conquest did finally succeed, he feared historians would not look kindly upon him. If he didn’t get a sobriquet like Atvar the Brutal, he would be surprised. But he didn’t know what to do about the Tosevites in India, past suppressing their riots. He couldn’t get rid of the plants from Home now even if he wanted to. They
would
flourish in that subregion; it was reasonably warm and reasonably dry, and they had no natural enemies there. The local ecosystem
would
be transformed, and not to the Tosevites’ advantage.

He wondered if he could move some of the Big Uglies from the affected areas to those where Tosevite ecologies remained more or less intact. But no sooner had the thought crossed his mind than certain difficulties became obvious. The Tosevites of northern India might not want to be moved; Big Uglies were reactionary that way. Wherever he moved them, the current inhabitants were all too likely to prove less than welcoming. They might not have excess food, either; Tosevite agriculture was at best imperfectly efficient. And ecological change would come to many more areas of the planet, even if it hadn’t yet.

He sighed again. Some problems simply had no neat, tidy solutions. That would have been an unacceptable notion back on Home. A hundred thousand years of unified imperial history argued that the Race could solve anything. But the Big Uglies and their world presented challenges different from, and worse than, any the Race had known since the days of its ancientest history—and maybe worse than any it had known then, too.

The fleetlord went on to the next item in the daily briefing. It made him hiss in alarm. Superstitious fanatics from the main continental mass had traveled to the lesser continental mass and mounted an attack on the fortress where that maniac of a Khomeini was imprisoned.

“By the Emperor!” Atvar exclaimed, and let out yet another sigh, this one of relief, when he discovered the attack had failed. “Would that not have been a disaster—Khomeini on the loose again!” There would surely have been uprisings throughout the areas were the Muslim superstition predominated . . . including Cairo itself. Atvar had seen enough such disturbances—too many, in fact.

I commend the males who prevented Khomeini’s escape,
he wrote.
I also commend the Tosevite constabulary officials who fought side by side with our males. And I particularly commend the individual who thought to incarcerate Khomeini in a region inhabited by Big Uglies of a superstition different from his. That helped to insure the loyalty of local protective officials.

Next on the agenda was a note that, with two spaceships in the belt of minor planets, the American Tosevites were spreading rapidly and were busy at so many sites that the Race’s surveillance probes could not keep track of everything they were doing.
Shall we let them continue unobserved, being more or less sure they can find no way to harm us from such a distance?
the head of the surveillance effort asked.
Or shall we expend the resources to continue keeping an eye turret turned in their direction?

Atvar did not hesitate.
If we need more probes, we must send more probes,
he wrote.
The Americans sacrificed a city in preference to withdrawing from space. It follows that they expect to reap some benefit from their continued presence among these minor planets. Perhaps that benefit will be only economic. Perhaps it will be military, or they think it will. We dare not take the chance that they will prove mistaken.

His tailstump quivered with agitation he could not hide. The commission he’d appointed to study Earl Warren’s motivation had concluded that the Big Ugly had known exactly what he was doing, and had just had the misfortune—from his point of view, though not from the Race’s—to get caught. That was what Atvar had least wanted to hear. He would much rather have believed the Tosevite leader addled. That would have made Warren less dangerous. But the evidence, Atvar had to admit, was on the commission’s side.

He read on, and found more complaints from occupation officials in the
Reich
that the Deutsche were not turning in their surviving weapons, but were doing their best to conceal arms against a possible future uprising. That made his tailstump quiver again, this time from raw fury.

Still in the grip of that fury, he wrote,
Convey to their not-emperor that their cities remain hostage to their good behavior. If they refuse to turn over weapons as they promised on their surrender, one of those cities shall cease to be as abruptly as did Indianapolis. If that fails to gain their attention, another city shall vanish. They have already hit us too hard and too often. They shall get no further chances.

An order like that would get him remembered as Atvar the Brutal, too. Back on Home, it would have been impossible. Anyone who tried to issue such an order there would be reckoned a bloodthirsty barbarian, and immediately sacked. Here on Tosev 3 . . . Atvar didn’t even feel guilty, not after everything the Deutsche had done to the Race. Here on Tosev 3, the order was simply common sense.

Only a couple of items remained. He hoped they’d prove inconsequential. A forlorn hope, he knew. Inconsequential items were dealt with at levels far lower than his. For the most part, he never found out about them. What reached him was what his subordinates, for whatever reason, felt they couldn’t handle themselves.

Sure enough, the next report had to do with China. Not least because of its long border with the SSSR and the zealots who shared the independent not-empire’s political doctrines, that subregion refused to stay pacified. The latest rumors had those zealots plotting another uprising. Whenever they tried to rise, the Race crushed them. They did not seem to believe they couldn’t win. Every so often, they would have another go at it.

Atvar was tempted to order the use of explosive-metal weapons there, too. With a certain amount of reluctance, he refrained. That would anger the SSSR, and he’d had enough trouble with the Tosevite not-empire lately. And now the Nipponese Empire had explosive-metal weapons, too, and had to be treated more circumspectly. Conventional means had sufficed to hold the lid on China thus far. They would probably keep doing so a while longer.

Before he could check the last item in the day’s briefing, Pshing called, “Exalted Fleetlord, I have Fleetlord Reffet on the telephone.”

“Tell him I am shedding my skin and cannot be disturbed,” Atvar said, but then, having mercy on his adjutant, he relented: “Put him through.” When the fleetlord of the colonization fleet appeared on the monitor, he did his best to be polite. “I greet you, Reffet. What can I do for you today?”

Politeness proved wasted. Without preamble, Reffet said, “You are surely the most arrogant, high-handed male in the history of the Race. How dare you—how
dare
you—unilaterally order a Soldiers’ Time and commence preparations for conscripting members of the colonization fleet into the military?”

“As usual, you ask the wrong question,” Atvar answered. “The right question is, how could I have waited so long? With the fighting against the Deutsche, with the near conflict against the Americans, it becomes ever more plain that we are going to have to have the ability to fight for generations to come. Would you sooner rely on Tosevite hirelings to resist the independent not-empires?”

“Well, no,” Reffet said, “but—”

“If the answer is no, but me no buts,” Atvar said. “You have delayed and resisted every time I proposed this course. We have no more time for delay and resistance. We need colonists able to defend themselves. That being so, I have begun taking the steps necessary to insure that we have them.”

“Do you have any idea how this will disrupt the economy of the Race on Tosev 3?” Reffet demanded. “Fighting is not profitable. Fighting is the opposite of profitable.”

“Survival is profitable,” Atvar answered. “As for the economy, no, I do not know how badly this will disrupt it. Losing a war with the Big Uglies would disrupt it worse. I do know that. And I know that we can get from our subject Tosevites much of what the members of the Race who become soldiers would have produced.”

“We already get from our subject Tosevites and from the wild Big Uglies too much of what we should be making for ourselves,” Reffet said. “This has also been destabilizing and demoralizing. We did not anticipate industrial competition, you know.”

“In that case, the members of the Race who should be producing but are not will now have the chance to give a different kind of service.” Atvar forced good cheer into his voice: “You see? Benefits on every side.”

“I see a male who has exceeded his authority,” Reffet snarled.

“You see a male doing what needs doing,” Atvar replied. “I realize this may be a spectacle new to you. Nevertheless, I shall go forward. I aim to preserve the Race on Tosev 3 no matter how much you want to return the whole planet to the Big Uglies.” As he’d hoped, that made Reffet break the connection. With silence in the office, Atvar got back to work.

 
14

Gorppet turned an eye turret toward Hozzanet. “Excuse me, superior sir, but exactly how much of the Greater German
Reich
does the Race in fact control?”

“Ah.” Hozzanet waggled an eye turret of his own: ironic approval. “You are beginning to understand, I see. How much of the
Reich
do
you
think we control?”

“As much as we can see,” Gorppet answered at once. “Not the thickness of a scale more. Wherever our eyes or our reconnaissance photographs do not reach, I am convinced the Deutsche do as they please. And what they please is anything that can harm us.”

“I should bring more infantrymales into Security,” Hozzanet remarked. “You have no trouble seeing that which appears invisible to many whose body paint is a great deal more complex than yours.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Gorppet said. “Males of high rank never get out to see for themselves. They rely on reports from others, and the reports commonly tell them everything is fine. And everything usually
is
fine . . . where we are known to be looking. Elsewhere—I will not answer for elsewhere.”

“I think you are wise not to,” Hozzanet replied. “Here is another question for you: what is the only thing that keeps the Deutsche from rising against us?”

“The certainty that we will smash them flat if they try,” Gorppet said. “Smash them flatter, I mean. I almost wish they
would
rebel, to give us the excuse to do it.”

“In this, you are not alone,” Hozzanet said. “In fact, for your hearing diaphragms only, I will say that there has been some discussion of touching off a Deutsch rebellion, to give us an excuse to punish these Big Uglies again and take fuller control over the area.”

“But for one difficulty, I would like to see us do that,” Gorppet said.

“I know what you are going to say,” Hozzanet told him. “You are going to say something like, ‘Where will we get the males to garrison the
Reich?’
Am I right, or am I wrong? Was that what you were going to say, or not?”

“As a matter of fact, it was, superior sir,” Gorppet admitted. “We have enough trouble finding the males to garrison this not-empire now. Where would we come up with more, no matter how much we need them?”

To his surprise, Hozzanet said, “I may have an answer for you. I am given to understand that we may actually start training members of the colonization fleet to fight. That would give us the extra soldiers we need.”

“So it would,” Gorppet agreed. “I will, however, believe it when I see it, and not a moment before. We should have done it as soon as the colonization fleet got here. When we did not do it then, my guess was that we never would, that the colonists had done such a good job of fussing and complaining that they would never have to start earning their own keep.”

“You
are
a cynical fellow.” Hozzanet spoke with considerable admiration. “Here again, I admit you have had some reason to be. But I think you are wrong this time. After all, however much we wish we would, we are not going to stay around forever. Sooner or later, the colonists will have to protect themselves against the Big Uglies. If they do not, who will do it for them?”

“They have not worried about that so far,” Gorppet said. “Why should they worry now?” Something else occurred to him; he started to laugh. “I wish I were an underofficer training them. I would enjoy that, I think.”

“Yes, plenty of males will be looking for the chance to show the colonists just how ignorant they are of the way things work on Tosev 3,” Hozzanet agreed. “We shall have no shortage of volunteers for that duty.”

Gorppet made the affirmative gesture. Then another new thought struck him. “Do they intend to teach males and females to be soldiers, or just males? Before, it would have mattered only during mating season. With ginger, though, it matters all the time. Has anyone bothered to think about that?”

“I do not know,” Hozzanet said. “It would not surprise me if our leaders did their best to forget about the herb.”

“They would be fools if they did,” Gorppet said. “Of course, that may not stop them. But I am far from sure that military discipline and mating behavior can stand side by side. Someone ought to point that out to them.”

“Truth,” Hozzanet said. “Go ahead.”

“Me?” Now Gorppet made the negative gesture. “No one would pay any attention to me. I am lucky to be an officer at all.”

“Your skill made you an officer. Luck had nothing to do with it,” Hozzanet said. “Draft a memorandum. I will endorse it and pass it up the line.”

“It shall be done, superior sir.” Gorppet could say nothing else. What he thought was,
Look what your big mouth got you into this time.
After a moment, he did add, “Some members of the Race are likely to say that this makes us like the Big Uglies, who also usually exclude their females from combat.”

“Some members of the Race are fools,” Hozzanet replied. “You will, I suspect, have observed this for yourself. The Big Uglies are sexually dimorphic to a greater degree than we are, and have practiced mechanized warfare only a short time. Up till recently, raw strength was necessary for their combat, so it is no wonder their females were commonly excluded. That is not an issue for us, but control of our sexuality is. Can you imagine what the Deutsche would have done to us after spraying ginger over a battlefield with both males and females on it?”

“I can, but I would rather not.” Gorppet shuddered at the thought. “Very well, superior sir. I will emphasize that point when I write.”

He didn’t enjoy drafting the memorandum. He hadn’t had to do such things very often as an infantrymale and then an underofficer. The risks of combat were familiar: pain, mutilation, death. The risks here were subtler, but real nevertheless: embarrassment, mockery, humiliation. He was no writer, and was painfully aware of his own deficiencies. He feared everyone else who saw the memorandum would be painfully aware of them, too.

With some—more than some—trepidation, he showed Hozzanet the document once he’d finished it. The other officer read through the piece without a word. Gorppet was sure he’d produced nothing but a broken egg. At last, when Hozzanet turned one eye turret away from the monitor and toward him, he managed to ask, “Well, superior sir?” He sounded miserable. Fair enough—he felt miserable.

“I shall do what I said,” Hozzanet answered. “I shall endorse it and send it on to our superiors in the hope that it will do some good. I think it is very effective—very clear, very straightforward. You make a good case. You certainly have convinced me. Some of the officers set above us, of course, have trouble seeing past the ends of their own snouts. Maybe they will ignore this. But maybe, on the other fork of the tongue, it will help them see farther. We can but hope, eh?”

“Yes, superior sir.” Now Gorppet sounded dazed. Delight coursed through him, almost as if he’d had a taste of ginger. “Clear? Straightforward? My work? I thank you, superior sir!”

“You are welcome,” Hozzanet said. “You are very welcome indeed. You did the work. I am merely approving its quality, which should be—and, I think, will be—obvious to everyone.”

“I thank you,” Gorppet repeated, more dazed still. This was better than ginger, for the pleasure lingered. It didn’t steal away to be replaced by gloom at least as strong.

“As I said, you have earned the praise,” Hozzanet told him. “I would not be surprised if I were calling you ‘superior sir’ one of these days.”

That, as far as Gorppet could see, was a preposterous extravagance. He didn’t say so; contradicting Hozzanet would have been rude. But he didn’t take the notion seriously, either. His longtime service below officer’s rank had convinced him that surviving was more important than advancing, anyhow.

Work went on while he waited for his superiors to respond to the memorandum. Longtime service below officer’s rank had convinced him that they would take their own sweet time about it, too. One afternoon, he let out a surprised hiss. Hozzanet swung an eye turret his way and asked, “Something interesting?”

“Yes, superior sir,” Gorppet answered. “Remember that Tosevite male named Drucker, who was going down to Neu Strelitz to search for his mate and hatchlings?”

Hozzanet made the affirmative gesture. “I am not likely to forget him. That trip cost us a good male and a motorcar. Cursed Deutsch bandits. Why? What about him now?”

“He has been positively identified in Neu Strelitz,” Gorppet said. “Up till now, the assumption was that he too perished in the attack, even if his body was not found.”

“Assumptions are commonly worth their weight in ginger,” Hozzanet said, which made Gorppet laugh. The other male went on, “Do you suppose he might tell you the truth about what happened if you went down to Neu Strelitz and asked him?”

“Superior sir, I do not know,” Gorppet answered. “Some of that, I suppose, will depend on what
did
happen and how close his ties to the bandits are. Even if he owes me certain debts, Big Uglies reckon kinship more important and friendship less so than we do.”

“I understand that,” Hozzanet said. “I ought to, on this miserable ball of mud. Go on. Do your best.”

“It shall be done,” Gorppet said—again, what other choice had he?

When he got to Neu Strelitz, he found it to be another small city that had taken considerable damage during the fighting. The Deutsche were doing their best to put things to rights again. They were energetic and hardworking, almost alarmingly so.

“There!” said the informant whose tip had got back to him—a yellow-haired Tosevite female who went by the name of Friedli. She spoke the language of the Race badly but understandably. “See you him, walking there?”

“Yes.” Gorppet found one question to ask before going after Drucker: “Why do you give him away to us?”

“He my mate threatened and betrayed,” she answered. “Now get him!”

Kinship, not friendship,
Gorppet thought. He skittered down the street after Johannes Drucker. When he caught up, he said, “I greet you.”

The Deutsch male stopped and stared down at him. “Gorppet?” he said, and Gorppet used the affirmative gesture. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to ask you the same question,” Gorppet said. “How did you escape the ambush that killed Chinnoss? Have you found your mate and your hatchlings?”

Drucker hesitated before answering. In that moment of hesitation, Gorppet became convinced he wouldn’t learn anything. And he was right. The Big Ugly replied, “I am sorry, but I really cannot tell you what happened that day. I was knocked unconscious when the motorcar rolled over, so I know nothing.”

“I do not believe you,” Gorppet said bluntly.

“I am sorry,” Drucker repeated. “I was lucky not to be killed.”

“That was not luck,” Gorppet said. “You were not killed because you are not a male of the Race.”

Johannes Drucker shrugged. “I must go. Will you excuse me?”

“Suppose I arrest you instead?” Gorppet demanded, his temper kindling.

“You may try.” The Big Ugly shrugged again. “I doubt you will succeed, not here in a town without a garrison.”

He was, unfortunately, almost sure to be correct. Gorppet sent him a reproachful stare, not that any Tosevite was likely to recognize it as such. He said, “I thought we were friends, you and I.”

Drucker surprised him by using the Race’s negative hand gesture. “You and I are not enemies. That is a truth. But your folk and mine are not friends, and that is also a truth. Now I must say farewell.” He walked on down the street.

Gorppet could have gone after him. Gorppet could have raised his weapon and started shooting. Instead, with a sigh, he returned to his vehicle. No, keeping the Deutsche suppressed wouldn’t be easy, or anything close to it.
As if I hadn’t known as much already,
he thought bitterly.

Sam Yeager wondered why he’d been summoned to Little Rock. He hadn’t wanted to come to the capital. His wife and son hadn’t wanted him to go, either;
sticking your head in the lion’s mouth
was the phrase Barbara had used. But he remained an officer of the U.S. Army. Unless he wanted to resign his commission, he had to follow orders. And he didn’t want to resign it; he’d worked too hard to get where he was. Resigning would have been like admitting that everything he’d been through was something he’d somehow deserved. He was damned if he’d do that.