The Domination, page 119
“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. Thereto’ 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 attackin’ 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, the balance of doubt weighed, 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.
“We’ll 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 you 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, you mean my little offer of Citizenship?” He raised an eyebrow. “Well, you can scarcely blame you 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; you lost, General Lefarge.” For reasons you’ll never know. “Even assumin’ you support in the Belt stays rock-firm, all you can do is hurt us befo’ we drag you down. Which we will in the end; to kill the Race you’d have to kill Earth. Meanin’ two billion innocents; any one of whom, of course, can exercise the option of dyin’ on they own initiative any time they wants. In terms of you 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’ you and I to work out a way which doesn’t require that you 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 you down. Which you can send observers to verify. In any case, my offer has split you community. To the brink of civil war, if you 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 you 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.”
A curt nod and the screen blanked. Eric sat in thought, watching the chill non-summer rains beat against the window. Then he keyed the office com again.
“Put Arch-Strategos Ingolfsson on,” he continued. There was work yet, before he could sleep. “Secured Channel Seventeen, and leave me, please.”
Yolande looked up from her desk, her hand shaking as she took another stim and swallowed it dry. Got to watch these, she thought.
“Excellence.” Wotan, he looks worse than I do. Of course, he’s eighty.
“Arch-Strategos. This is on Channel Seventeen, you can speak freely. In brief, you are relieved and ordered to return to Archona.” The starved eagle face leaned closer to the pickup. “Seven hundred million dead,” he continued quietly. “Includin’ millions of our own people. How does it feel, bein’ the greatest mass murderer in human history?”
Yolande squeezed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose. “If this is victory, perhaps defeat is preferable,” she said. “I’m ready fo’ you firm’ squads, Excellence.”
“I’ve seen defeat just recently, and you’re wrong,” Eric said and laughed; she shivered slightly. It was the laugh a hanged man might make. “And I’m not lettin’ you off so easy as that.”
She looked up, and he was grinning at her.
“A third of the human species dies, and Louise Gayner survived; accordingly, I can’t spare the ‘Hero of the Tunnels.’ And y’are kin, aftah all . . . I ought to send you to Australasia to pacify it.”
A pause. “No, I’m givin’ Gayner that joy; it’s butcher’s work, she’ll enjoy it. And hopefully do it badly enough to give me an axe-swing at her neck . . . No, you, dear niece, are comin’ home to put the remnants of our space capacities together. We need them, if we’re to get this planet back on its feet.”
Another corpse smile. “Just to help, I’m goin’ to be sendin’ you lots of qualified personnel. We’re goin’ to be handin’ out Citizenship fairly liberal; some millions, as many as I can swing. Awkward to have them around here—off to you. Now you can really learn how to handle Yankees.” Flatly: “And that firin’ squad is in abeyance, not dismissed.”
She looked up sharply. “Think about it, niece. I just ‘won’ the Final War. I’ve got a decade at least in which to use that, politically, and I intend to use it. And you . . . you troubles are just gettin’ under way.”
Yolande nodded. It was difficult to care, when you were this tired. “Was that smart, lettin’ the New America go?” she said. And are the Lefarges escaping me, or have I taken the most complete vengeance any human being has ever achieved?
“I think so,” he said, nodding heavily. “Keeps us on our toes, makes sure the Race goes to the stars as well. And . . . maybe this victory”—his mouth twisted at the word—“means Earth is goin’ down a dead end, much as we try to see otherwise. The New America means an insurance policy fo’ our species, at least. See you soon, partner in crime.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Could things have turned out otherwise? My father went to his grave blaming himself for the Fall. Some others who should have known better still do so. Yet how far can any individual be blamed or praised for a historical event so large and complex? Here on Samothrace we have developed an exaggerated idea of what one person can do, perhaps. An entire solar system with less than a quarter-million inhabitants will do that. We are on our own, on a frontier whose homeland has been eaten by time and history. And our heritage is one of belief in individual responsibility, the sacredness of choice, in the human being as the embodiment of humanity. Rightly so: even to the extent of renouncing the temptations of the trans-human, whether electronic or biological. We make our own destiny here.
So we see our history-become-myth in terms of heroes and villains. My father was a very great man; the New America’s completion is his monument, for without his driving will it might well never have been ready to carry our saving remnant. This world is his monument, as much as any single man’s, for his leadership in the first terrible years of the Settlement. Yet in those final months around Sol the lovely and the lost, how many separate acts—of cowardice, heroism, treachery, honor, love, hate, stupidity, inspiration—went into the making of the Fall? The past we do not know, the future we cannot. I knew the living man, and know he never did less than his utmost. Perhaps that should be added to our new Republic’s proud motto: Ad Astra et Libertas.”
A Heritage of Liberty
by Iris Lefarge Stoddard
Adams University Press
New Jerusalem, Planetary Republic of Samothrace
Alpha Centauri
2107 ad (109 Dispersal)
Epilogue I
CLAESTUM PLANTATION
DISTRICT OF TUSCANY
PROVINCE OF ITALY
DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA
JUNE 1, 2000
Yolande Ingolfsson paused and looked back from the entrance of the graveyard. The hills looked raw, without the ancient olives; the new plantings were tiny shoots of green, and she could see the workers still piling the black stumps and branches together for burning. There were gaps in the fruit orchards as well, despite all the anticold bacteria, and the sheep were few and sickly. The winds out of the west had been cold, these past winters; cold and full of death. But the land would recover, if not fully in her lifetime; the grass stood green, and the thin rumpled grainfields were beginning to show yellow with promise. She shivered slightly, pulling the collar of her coat closer about her; it would be a long time before Italy was as warm as it had been.
The grave was a little ragged, neglected when so much else needed every pair of hands. She knelt and laid the roses on the shaggy grass. That’s all right, she thought, smoothing it with her hands. There were small white flowers blooming in it; they smelled of peppermint. It’s life, is all.
“Myfwany,” she said, and found herself empty of words for a long time. The sun moved, and her shadow crept across the living flowers and the ones she had brought.
“Myfwany, sweet,” she whispered at last. “I don’t know what to say. They’re calling me a hero, now. Even Uncle Eric, in public.” She shook her head again. “The world is so full of mourning, it should make my own griefs seem small. And yet . . . I’m lucky, I suppose. Gwen’s safe; our children are safe. There’s no war hangin’ over they heads now. But—” she beat her fists together. “Oh, love, did I do right, or did I fuck it all up?”
Warm wet slid down her cheeks, into the corners of her mouth. She raised her hand to her face, reached out to lay the teardrop on the roses. It slid onto the crimson petal, lay glittering.
“Oh, honeysweet,” she said, her voice shaking with the sobs. “All the tears I never cried, would they have made a difference? My love, rest you well. Rest ever well. Till we meet again, forever.”
Epilogue II
CONTROL DECK
ALLIANCE SHIP NEW AMERICA
PAST THE ORBIT OF PLUTO
OCTOBER 1, 2000
“That’s it,” Captain Anderson said with a sigh. “If we needed any more confirmation.” He eased the earphones from his wiry black hair; a stocky pug-faced Minnesotan of Danish descent, and a physicist of note as well as a Space Forcer. “Over to you, JB,” he continued formally.
The Second Officer nodded and touched a control. Anderson turned to the gaunt man who stood behind him, watching the receding light of Sol in the main tank-screen in the center of the control deck. It was set to show what an unaided eye would see from this distance: no more than an unusually bright star.
“So they’re keeping their word, for once,” Lefarge said softly. “Not that we left them any choice, the way we had it set up.” It was surprising enough that von Shrakenberg had trusted him to broadcast the final specs on the comp-plague . . . He pushed the complexities out of his mind. It was difficult; that was something he was going to have to learn all over again, to live for the future. Cindy would help, and they would both offer what they could to Marya.
“They couldn’t touch us at this range, anyway,” Anderson said meditatively.
“That’s true,” Lefarge agreed. His voice had an empty tone, to match his eyes. “They’ll probably follow, one day. If not to Alpha Centauri, to other places.”
“We’ll be ready,” Anderson said, coming up beside him. There was no other sound besides the ventilators, and the subliminal tremor of the drive. That would continue for months yet . . . “Or we . . . our descendants could go back, first.”
“No. No, not if they have any sense. There’ll be nothing here worth coming back for; we’re taking all the valuables with us. All that’s left.”
The ship’s commander cleared his throat. His authority was theoretically absolute, until they reached the New America’s destination, and he knew Lefarge would obey as readily as any crewman. But there was something in that lined face that made him reluctant to order; it would be an intrusion, somehow.
“Brigadier—” he began.
Lefarge looked up and smiled; it even seemed to touch his eyes, somehow. “Fred,” he said. “While we’re off duty, Captain.”
“Fred. Look, man, there’s no real need for you to stand watches; yes, you’re qualified, and it’ll be only five years total.” The bulk of the colonists would be in Low-Met all the way; there were five active-duty crews, who would work in rotation. “But it’s at the other end we’re really going to need you. Hell, why waste your lifespan? You’re going to have a life’s work there, and barring catastrophe the crew’s doing routine. For that matter, I’m going to have time to finish that novel at last.”
