Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire (46 page)

"He might believe it," I said. "A lot of people cracked up during the Collapse."

"Fine. How are we supposed to negotiate with a lunatic?"

The Colonel chuckled. I'd always wondered what that would sound like, but the noise was much drier than I could have expected. "That was a common diplomatic problem even before the Collapse."

Gwen looked annoyed. "If he's really nuts, then that's all the more reason to blow him away—discreetly, of course. The sooner we free his 'tribe' from him, the better."

"We cannot simply liberate his people," the Colonel said, as we walked into his company base—a fancy name for a brace of tents, I'll admit. "If we try to bring them into the Republic, they will not cooperate."

"Colonel, they're savages," Gwen said. "Look at Weyler's men. If we gave them half a chance, they'd join us in half a second."

Washington shook his head. "My agents have tried to get them to defect. It hasn't worked because they're no longer 'nothing but savages.' Weyler has very carefully, and very thoroughly, indoctrinated his people with a new set of beliefs."

Gwen made a noise of disgust. "They
believe
that simpleminded trash about Dark Gods and magic?"

"They do," Washington said. "The mind that thought it up is anything but simple. He, Weyler, has created a mythology in which science is magic—a very weak magic. The Dark Gods destroyed the old civilization by appearing in the guise of a super-scientific race from the stars, and destroying us with stronger magic."

I shook my head. I didn't doubt the Colonel—understanding the outlanders was a big part of his job—but that was hard to swallow. "Colonel, a lot of Weyler's people were born long before the Collapse. How can they swallow that mulch? They know what science is."

"Do they know?" he asked. "Did they ever know?"

Another good point. Hell, even before the Collapse a lot of people thought of science as a kind of magic. I had no cause to act surprised if Weyler's savages were more open about it.

"There is another point," Washington said. "Weyler uses ritual to condition his people into the viewpoint of savages. He encourages slavery and vendettas to counteract the ideals of civilization. Human sacrifice is a prime example—when a victim is killed, the participants must either feel guilt over a murder, or see the act as a legitimate, even moral deed."

"So to live with their consciences, they have to become savages," I said. Gwen made a small noise; she shared my disgust.

"Indeed." Looking oddly unsettled, the Colonel excused himself and went into his tent. Gwen and I left the camp, heading back to the Concourse. "You met the Colonel in '97," Gwen said. "How well do you know him?"

"How well does anyone know him?" I asked. "He went to West Point, and he fought in Central America for a year—he was wounded and spent some time in Walter Reed. He's one of the Founders. Beyond that, I don't even know his first name. He keeps to himself. Why do you ask?"

"Remember what Weyler said back there? About whether it would matter if the Colonel won or lost to the Aliens? What in hell did that mean?"

"You've got me," I said. "I suppose he was just trying to confuse the issue." Gwen nodded ruefully, said goodbye and went her own way.

I'm a better politician than she is; she hadn't realized I was lying. I know Washington a little better than anyone else; I know his secret. An Alien zapped him during the Battle of Chicago.

The Battle, in which we threw the Aliens back into space, was as lopsided as the devil. On our side, we had a scratch regiment from the Eighty-second Airborne Division, supported by National Guard tanks and artillery, and reservists such as myself. The Aliens had their landing craft, their force-shield and anti-meteor weapon— and one zapper.

The force field deflected most of our small-weapons fire, while the meteor ray vaporized our bombs and shells as they came in. The shield had effectively unlimited power, and once we ran out of bombs and shells, our soldiers had to go in on foot, pitting M-16s against a zapper. No wonder most of them mutinied.

The zapper is a gentle weapon, which works by stimulating the pleasure center of a brain—any brain, Alien, human, or animal. On the one hand, as one of the Aliens explained, their race considered it barbaric to kill or injure other life-forms, no matter how primitive. On the other hand, a blast of pure pleasure can immobilize an attacker as effectively as death; no one can function during the ultimate orgasm. On the other hand (the Aliens have three), they had no idea that humans could become addicted to the zapper.

Everyone learned about that quickly. The zapper left its victims unconscious, to awake with the memory of ecstasy corroding their souls. All that the victims could think about was repeating the experience. Most chasers died of thirst, because drinking water distracted them from the pursuit of the Aliens.

The Colonel wasn't immune to its effects. At the climax of the Battle I saw him walk toward the Alien lander, when everyone else was either running or hiding. I was hiding behind a pile of concrete, and hoping that the zapper couldn't work through it. It was all I could do to peek over the rubble, and see the Colonel fall in convulsions as he was zapped.

I saw him get up and stagger toward the Alien with the zapper. I
know
he was hit again; I heard the zapper's burring noise, and I felt the pleasant sensation of its backlash. Before the monster could fire a third time, he was on top of it. The Colonel grabbed the Alien and slammed it against the pavement, killing it and wrecking the zapper. We'll never know how the other Aliens felt about that; they bugged out then. We saw
Scented Vine
's drive flame pushing it out of Earth orbit that night.

Maybe Washington's ability to withstand the zapper isn't surprising. His will power is fierce; he held his unit together throughout the Collapse. Lesser men did the same thing, and went on to become petty warlords; the Colonel turned his force into a servant of the Republic and civilization.

Did the experience change the Colonel? I couldn't say. Even before the Battle I had found this mythic-warrior reserve impenetrable. One thing was certain: I couldn't mention any of this to Gwen. Aside from being an intolerable breach of the Colonel's privacy, it would demoralize her, and everyone else, to learn that our national hero was a victim of the zapper.

It didn't do anything for my morale to know that—or to realize that Weyler knew it.

The Aliens came out of their lander that afternoon. They wore suits identical to those of
Scented Vine
's crew. The garments were said to be puncture-proof, which would prevent the spread of any micro-organisms in either direction. They had a mirror-like anti-laser coating that made it difficult to look at them. Three of them stood inside the haze of the force field, while one moved downhill toward the Concourse and the Forum. Soldiers and outlanders watched it silently, while the Colonel, Gwen, and I went out to speak to it.

I was there more through curiosity than necessity. The Colonel could assess their military potentials better than I could, and the only real plan the government had was to stall for time. Still, I was interested in the things.

Come, let us be honest. I wanted to see how Colonel Washington reacted. If he was hooked on the zapper, I wanted to know now.

The Alien recognized us as a delegation. It stopped in front of us and touched its translator plate. "I wish to visit your leader." The machine sounded as emotionless as the Colonel.

"She's taking the day off," Gwen said.

"My business with her is most urgent."

Gwen shrugged. "If she thought she had urgent business with you, she'd have shown up for work today."

"I wish to discuss the affair of the
Scented Vine
. I am convinced your leader finds this important."

I glanced at the Colonel. His face looked as blank as the Alien's gold visor. He'd noticed the zapper in its holster, along with other devices on the Alien's waistband, but it didn't hold his attention. At least, that's the way it seemed to me.

"Our leader has other things on her mind," Gwen said. "If you want to make an appointment, I think she can work you into her schedule sometime next week."

There was a long pause, and I wondered what was going on inside that helmet. "I will agree to an appointment," the Alien said at last.

"Fine. Speaker Ryan will see you Monday at noon."

"That is acceptable." The Alien spun around and went back to its lander. It walked gracefully, I'll admit; the three legs and three arms moved with a dancelike rhythm.

"Interesting," the Colonel said, as we walked back downhill. "It seemed almost desperate to see the Speaker."

" 'Almost,' nothing," I said. "I'd say it
was
desperate. Not to mention diplomatic."

"It wasn't diplomatic," Gwen said. "Patient, maybe.
Stinking Weed
's crew never accepted any sort of a delay, remember? That thing tolerated an unavoidable delay, nothing more. I wonder why?"

"It is not here to help us," Washington said. "If it was here to help undo the damage of their last visit, it would have said so."

"So they want something from us," I concluded. As conclusions went, that stank. What did we have that could interest the Aliens? Judging by the looks on their faces, Gwen and the Colonel were as much in the dark as I was.

"I see that the Dark God confounded you," Weyler said. He'd crept up behind us, as quiet as a cat but less welcome.

"Not at all," Gwen said. "It just made an appointment to see Speaker Ryan next week. You should do the same thing, Weyler, although I doubt she'll invite
you
to lunch."

His eyes glinted angrily. "So it confounded you after all."

"It almost sold us the Brooklyn Bridge," Gwen said cheerfully. "Weyler, why don't you walk up to one of those ugly bastards and tell it about your 'Dark Gods' silliness? Or get some of your clowns to pray to them—up close, where they can smell you?"

"The Dark Gods are not mocked!" he said, and stalked away.

Washington's eyes followed him. "I'd better speak to my men," he said. "They have orders to watch him at all times."

"Don't be too hard on them," Gwen said. "Weyler lives like an animal. He knows how to slither around."

"And my men are supposed to know how to follow him." The Colonel left.

I looked Gwen over as we walked down the Concourse. "Gwen, have you got something personal against Weyler?"

"You mean, why am I acting this way?" She shook her head. "Tad, I lost my husband and children to raiders. Maybe I wouldn't hate Weyler so much if he was just a savage, but he's deliberately working to tear apart what's left of civilization. He's no better than the Aliens."

"Is that any reason to bait him?" I asked. "Or them? If you can't be hypocritical enough—"

"I could," she said, and frowned thoughtfully. "But I won't. Treating them seriously is a mistake; it gives them credibility. I think we would have been all right if we'd laughed at those walking milk stools in '97. Don't ask me why we didn't. Well, we both have work waiting for us. Catch you later."

She left me alone with my thoughts. Gwen might provoke either the Aliens or Weyler into doing something dangerous, but politically she was making the right move. If the Republic survived both the Aliens and Weyler's plans, she'd come up smelling like a rose. If we collapsed, well, nothing would matter any more.

I went back to my office. Between Zone Twenty-nine and my War Department work, I had plenty to do. Mobilization was on my mind; if we were going to have a war, I wanted it done as efficiently as possible. There were reports of more incidents in the Neutral Zone; bands of raiders were probing everywhere, no doubt at Weyler's behest. They couldn't hurt us, but they tied down a considerable fraction of the Army.

One thing became obvious: mobilization was going to delay the Mesabi project. For the past twenty-seven years, all of our metals have come from salvage. Old cars, old plumbing, old wiring—there was plenty of scrap left after the Collapse, and so far it had met our needs. However, our industry was growing exponentially now, and we needed other sources. That meant reopening the iron mines in the Mesabi ranges, in upper Minnesota. Almost worked out in the last century, they still held enough ore to last us for decades.

That project was going on hold, I decided. The Mesabis were way outside our territory, and the expedition would have required at least a battalion of infantry for proper security—two battalions, once full-scale mining got under way. The Republic had a toehold on Lake Michigan, so we could reach the Mesabis without going overland, but the people up there were hostile to outsiders. We'd lost half our scouts to them.

We couldn't spare any soldiers now, which was a blow to our overall reconstruction plans. There would be repercussions; industry would suffer, employment would drop, farm outputs would decrease—hell. We'd muddle through, the way we always have, but I wouldn't like it.

You can understand why I was in a bad mood when the Alien waltzed into my office. My secretary was out to lunch, so the first warning I had came when I heard the thing's splayed feet tapping on the floor. It wasn't the one I'd met on the Concourse; the tool belt was different, and the zapper was bolstered differently. "Have a seat," I said maliciously. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"Misunderstanding," its translator said. "Anatomy is not compatible with human seating. Regrets at declining implied hospitality. Name, Dzhaz."

"Name, Woodman." Odd. No Alien had ever given its name to a mere human before. While it stood in front of my desk, I picked up a letter and started reading it. The note came from Pete Bodo, who told me that he'd found his cat-killer. A twelve-year-old boy on a neighboring farm was now supplying Bodo with a month of free labor. He thanked me for talking to the salesman who recalled selling the shotgun shells to one of his neighbors. Case closed.

I put the letter down and stared at my visitor. I had the feeling that the thing was uncomfortable. Perhaps I was just projecting human body language onto the Alien, but it kept shifting around in an interminable string of small movements. Fidgeting? Perhaps. "Now, what can I do for you?"