The Stone Dogs (73 page)

Eric looked over to the Agriculture Directorate's representative. "We can make it," he said, "
if
the transport system can get back to somewhere like thirty percent of normal in a year or two. And
if
there's no more excess demands, and we impose the strictest rationin'. We'll have just enough in the stockpiles to tide us ovah without we have to eat the serfs." A few hollow chuckles. "We're already freezin' down the livestock that died. Best we get control of the enemy territory's grain-surplus areas as quick as may be."

The Archon nodded to the Dominarch, the head of the Supreme General Staff. He was coolly professional as he took over control of the infosystem.

"Well, we made a mistake tryin' fo' immediate landings in North America," he said. Casualty figures and losses in equipment flashed on the wall; his tone became slightly defensive at the slight but perceptible wince. On the screen beside the schematic a firelight was stabbing bright tongues of orange-red through the gray drizzle.

"Too much of our orbital capacity is out; reconnaissance and interdiction we don't have. Not all that many organized fo'mations to oppose us, but we're hurt badly, too; also, we've had to keep back a lot of troops to maintain order an' help with relief efforts." He paused. "An' they had a damn good fallback force waitin'," he said grimly. "Couple of cases, it was like stickin'

our dicks into a meatgrinder. It goin be a
long
time befo' we get that area pacified. 'Specially iff'n we have to give priority to economic uses of our launch capacity. We're occupying a few strategic areas, stompin' on any major concentrations, an'

otherwise pullin' back. Fo' one thing, we still haven't gotten the last of those subs."

Snappdove joined in the general nod; Trincomalee had taken a hypersonic at short range only yesterday. "In any case, the survivors in North America would be almost as much trouble in labor camps," he said. "Making better progress in some other areas we are, but… these are territories dependent on a mechanized agriculture. We cannot support it, and the industries that did we have smashed. Also, ground combat devours resources we need elsewhere, not so much of material as of trained personnel."

"Aerospace?" Eric said.

A nod from another of the Arch-Strategoi. "Well," she said,

"in Cis-Lunar space, we won—iff'n yo' consider bein' almost wiped out as opposed to
completely
wiped out in those terms.

Only Alliance installations survivin' are in Britannia an' New Edo, with our people from Aresopolis sittin' on them. Aresopolis came off surprisin' well, which is a good thing because fuck-all help
we
goin' give them these next few years."

"Outer system."

A shrug. "Excellence, Mars is pretty safe, not least because what's left of the Fleet is mostly in orbit around it. A lot of them with their compcores blown. Not much direct damage to the Martian installations; the comp-plague hit them bad, wors'n here, but they on a planet, which makes the life support easier.

Trouble is, the Fleet units down are our best, the most modern."

Another shrug. "As fo' the gas-giant moons, we be lucky just to keep them
supplied,
and that's assumin' no hostile action."

"And in the Belt?"

"We lost. They whupped our ass, Excellence. We hurt them bad, totaled Ceres, but they've got pretty well complete control in there now. No offensive capability to speak of, but plenty of defense, all those tin cans with popguns an' station-based weapons. And that starship. We don't know much of
its
capacity, but we do know its auxiliaries are Loki on wheels; roughly equivalent to what's left of our Fleet. Less the
Lionheart,
but they're out of the picture and runnin' their systems on the research computers."

"Dominarch," Eric said formally, "is it yo' opinion that, as matters stand, we can break the remainin' enemy resistance?"

The head of the Domination's military looked to either side at his peers, then nodded. "Depends on yo' definitions, Excellence.

In Cis-Lunar space, not much of a problem, for what it's worth.

On Earth, we can prevent any organized military challenge, yes.

Dependin' on the resources made available," —he inclined his head towards Snappdove—"we can pacify the last of the Alliance territories in twenty to fifty years. Pacify to the point of bein'

open fo' settlement; I expect some partisan activity fo' a long, long time."

He bit his lower lip and tapped at the table with a stylus.

"Problem is Trans-Lunar space. There's maybe half a million ferals still left in the Belt, an' they have that starship and the facility that built it. We have our own antimatter production, just cumin' on stream near Mercury, but the transport an'

guardin' problems… And they are standin' above us on the gravity well." A long pause. "All factors considered, yes. We'll have to devote everythin' we can spare to it beyond survival, but yes. Certain advantages to bein' nearer the sun, and we do grossly outnumber them, in production as well. Long, long war of attrition, though. Possibility of technological surprise, although I doubt it; rate of innovation was slowin' down even befo' the War, and they won't have nearly as much to spare fo' research now."

Eric tapped his fingers together, looking around the table. The Draka were not a squeamish people, nor easily frightened—but the magnitude of this was enough to daunt anyone.
Myself
included,
he thought, and surprised them with a harsh laugh.

"Come now, brothers and sisters of the Race," he said. "These are the problems of
victory
. Think how our enemies must be feelin'!" He turned to the Dominarch again.

"Consider as an alternative that we get a year's grace," he said. "In addition, that that starship actually
leaves."

"Oh. Much better. Same prediction here on Earth; then… oh, say forty years to mop up the Belt. Still difficult an' expensive, but it would give us some margin."

Eric tapped the table lightly. "Here is my proposal. We offer terms to the remainin' enemies in Trans-Lunar space. The, ah,
New America
to be allowed to leave; we can guarantee that with exchange of hostages an' so forth. They turn ovah the complete schematics on the comp-plague. In addition, we offer Metic Citizenship to any who surrender on Luna an' beyond." That meant civil rights but not the franchise, with full Citizenship for their children. "Between the ones who leave, and the ones who take our offer, we cut the problem down to size."

Shock, almost an audible gasp. The Militants' spokesman burst out: "Inconceivable!."

Thank you,
Eric thought.
Gayner would have been more
subtle,
"There's ample precedent, aftah the Eurasian War, fo'

example." Everyone there would be conscious that Snappdove was the child of such.

"No precedent fo' that
scale.
And many of them would be racially totally unsuitable."

Eric smiled thinly. "Is there any precedent fo' the size of this war? Fo' the extent of our
losses
? Fo the
situation
? We need those skills, fo' sheer survival's sake. War to the knife now might bring down the Domination." He paused at that, for the political implications to seep home.
That's right, think on the fact
that
I'm the Archon who's winning the Final War. Who'll be seen as
the prudent one, and who the reckless, if you push this issue.

"As to the cosmetic problem, the Eugenics Board can see that their children have suitable exteriors."
And they will know
which party to throw their support behind, a factor not to be
dismissed.

"But—letting them establish a colony, on the nearest star; an insane risk!"

"Nearest? With a forty-year transit time?" Eric said mordantly. Heads nodded; most of those here had a reasonably good idea of the sheer immensity 4.5 light-years represented.

The whole solar system was a flyspeck by comparison. "Strategos Snappdove?" The Militant flushed, knowing this was collusion and unable to use the fact.

"Ah. Well, we estimate that they could take no more than a hundred thousand, assuming they use our Low-Met process. No matter how well equipped, this is a very small figure to maintain a technological civilization, the specialists required… The Belt itself is not self-sufficient, not really; it is almost impossible to fully duplicate a terrestroid ecology without a terrestroid planet… Using worst-case analysis, that is best-case fo' them, a century after arrival befo' they are established firmly enough to think of anything beyond bare survival. Therefo' we can expect no hostile action for a century an' a half, at an absolute minimum. Mo' probably a century beyond that."

"Besides which," he went on, "our studies indicate conclusively that attackn' a defended planetary system is virtually impossible. Interstellar war at sublight speeds is an absurdity; so is interstellar government. In two centuries, we'll be fully recovered, mo' powerful than a strugglin' colony could possibly be, and I'll stake my life and soul
we
wouldn't have the slightest chance of successfully attackin'
them
. If they did attack us, we could swat them like mosquitoes. Far mo' rational to put a fraction of that effort into colonizin' stars further out; which, incidentally, we'd be doin' as well."

Eric waited until the expressions showed the argument had been assimilated, weighted the balance of doubt and acceptance.

"And finally," he said, "a meta-political point. We Draka have always lived fo'—not necessarily war—but to excel, to dominate, to prove ourselves. As far as we can tell, there's no other sophont race within reach. Leastways, none with a technological civilization. The universe isn't enough of a challenge, it isn't conscious; without some rival, even if it's a rival we can't fight directly, what is the Race to measure itself against?"

He cleared his throat. That was a good concluding note; he had shown them just how grim the situation really was, and a way to simplify it considerably. And besides the practical reasons, a philosophical one squarely in line with tradition.

"Well need to study this in far mo' detail, of course." he went on. "And a number of factors depend on the enemy's reaction.

But I take it we have a preliminary consensus to present to the Senate and Assembly?"

CENTRAL OFFICE, ARCHONAL PALACE

ARCHONA

DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA

JANUARY 14, 1999

The face of the man in the screen was haggard-blank. Eric suspected that that was more than the psychotropic drugs thwarting the viral saboteurs at the base of the American's brain; it would be enough, to see a world perish while you stood helpless.
There is something worse than these ashes of victory
, he thought, moved.
Defeat.

"You are a son-of-a bitch even for a Snake, you know that?"

the American said.

"Those are the best terms yo' can expect," Eric said, making his voice gentle. The minutes of relay time were an advantage; his brain felt gritty with lack of sleep. "Oh, yo' mean my little offer of Citizenship?" He raised an eyebrow. "Well, yo' can scarcely blame yo' compatriots—ex-compatriots— on Luna for mostly fallin' in with it. Considerin' the alternatives."

"It's not altogether over," the voice from the screen grated.

"We… hold the Belt. We're standing over your head, Snake."

"The war is ovah. Was over befo' it began, or the human race would be dead. It couldn't be fought, only finessed. We both knew that; yo' lost, General Lefarge."
For reasons you'll never
know.
"Even assumin' yo' support in the Belt stays rock-firm, all you can do is hurt us befo' we drag yo' down. Which 'we will in the end; to kill the Race yo'd have to kill Earth. Meanin' two billion innocents; any one of whom, of course, can exercise the option of dying on they own initiative any time they wants. In terms of yo' own ethic, sacrificin' them for victory is one thing.

Deprivin' them all of they personal choice just to make the Draka suffer mo' is a little questionable, isn't it?"

"Not as questionable as trusting a Draka's word on allowing the
New America
to leave peacefully."

I've won
, Eric thought. It brought a workman's satisfaction, if no joy. "We don't expect that. What I'm asking is fo' yo' and I to work out a way which doesn't
require
that yo' trust us." He spread his hands. "To be absolutely frank, we don't really have the capacity to stop y'all, only to make the best departure orbit unworkable and slow yo' down. Which yo' can send observers to verify. In any case, my offer
has
split yo' community. To the brink of civil war, if yo' refuse this option."

Slow minutes of waiting. He felt the chill; it was colder than it should be, here in Archona, much colder. Not too much.
Near
the edge, but we pulled back in time. Our Mother is wounded,
but she'll recover, if I can buy her time.
Eric used the opportunity to study the other's face while the message arrived.

That is a dangerous man, he decided.
Am I doing the right
thing?

"We accept, pending the details," Lefarge spat. "And your sympathy isn't worth shit, Snake." He recovered an icy possession. "Tell me, though. Why not just offer admission to the Snake farm to our traitors?"

Eric spread his hands in concession. "Two… no, three reasons, Brigadier Lefarge. First, many mo' will take the offer, if they can salve they consciences by knowin' y'all have a place to go." He smiled.

"Sun Tzu said that one should never totally block an enemy's retreat; retreatin' refugees are less troublesome than a last stand, at the moment. Second, and this I used with my colleagues, what are the Draka without an enemy, however distant? We won't be able to follow y'all anytime soon—that's anothah thing we can arrange to verify—but we'll
know
that yo' there. Third, fo' my private consumption… Well, let's say that the Domination…

forecloses certain options, as a path of human development.

Better that not all the eggs be in one basket, fo' Earth's children."