Imperial Stars 1-The Stars at War (2 page)

Assur-bani-pal has come to conquer and destroy. Those not of Assyrian lineage may expect no more than slavery and death. Contemporary accounts say that lands the Assyrians passed over suffered "the death of the earth." Assyrian armies left little but waste. Not so the Persians. Darius the Great King has come not to destroy, but to rule; and by his rule shall all benefit, Medes, Persians, Scythians, and Ionians alike. It is the difference between mere conquest and Empire; and long after the King of Kings, Great King, was no more than blowing dust, the memory of his empire remains and flourishes. Cyrus the Great found no mean place in the Bible; and to this day there are those in Iran who wish he or one like him would come again.

The Imperial theme runs long through Western history. We first glimpse it in the Hittites, those strange Indo-European peoples who settled in what is now Turkey. They brought iron weapons into the Bronze Age; they also brought the notion of Empire: the remarkable idea that Hittites and Hurrians and Luwians and Carians might all retain their own gods and customs and kings, yet all serve the same Emperor. They had other odd notions: they believed that kings and emperors were not exempt from right and wrong; that restrained by no man they yet ought to be restrained by law.

We see that notion again with the Achaemenians: Cyrus the Great and his descendents, who forged what we in the West call the Persian Empire. Though their history was written by their enemies, the people of Aryana, Iran, land of the Aryans, come off well in both the Hebrew and Greek accounts. Persian nobles were taught to ride, shoot the bow, and speak the truth. Cruelty was no part of their heritage. Neither was racism: the Persian Empire brought in as citizens Aryan and Semite alike, and if all were subject to the King of Kings, Great King, they were not merely subject alike, but subjects under their own laws and customs.

Alexander of Macedon marched the length and breadth of Persia. He married the Great King's wife and daughters. He defeated the Great King in every battle, until the Great King's own guards slaughtered the man who had once ruled a quarter of the world. Alexander married ten thousand of his Macedonian soldiers to Persian wives. And, of course, in the end the Persian Empire conquered both Alexander and Macedonia. What matter that a Macedonian sat on the Peacock Throne? He was addressed as King of Kings, Great King; scribes and scholars advised him; the Ten Thousand Immortals with golden apples on the hilts of their spears guarded him; and woe to the sturdy Macedonian peasant who dared approach the Emperor as any Macedonian once had the right to approach his King. The King of the Macedonians was but a man. He who sat on the Peacock Throne was King of Kings, Great King. . . .

The Persian throne endured to this generation; and who can say that the ayatollahs will last forever?

And finally we come to the Empire that shaped all our lives: Rome. Rome, whose citizenship was so valuable that Paul of Tarsus had only to say "Civis Romanus sum" to be freed of the jurisdiction of the provincial governor and sent to very Rome for his appeal to be heard. Rome, whose peace lies through our history and legends. Rome, that gave rise to our longings for world government.

We long for world peace and order. We also prize freedom. Yet we know: enduring peace among a diversity of peoples has so far come only from empire. True, the United States has attempted a different experiment: to forge a nation of states. It is also true that the United States has been, and many think can survive only by continuing to be, a melting pot. Empire preserves diversities; democracy erases them. And it has been a long time since we heard serious talk of states rights in this land.

The Roman Empire was born of republican conquests. Conquest and external enemies alike required that the old Roman army of the citizenry in arms be replaced with professional soldiers: a standing army of legions.

The Emperor was born of the Roman Army. When there are no legions there is no need for an Emperor. Yet the very nature of empire breeds the need for soldiers: how else can the empire be held together? And the larger the government, the more likely its need for soldiers: we may write constitutions for a world government, but if we ever achieve one in reality history says that it will be imperial.

History can be wrong. Perhaps we will evolve new forms of government; or find new ways to make old ones work. It certainly can do no harm to speculate.

Herewith fact and fiction about governments and empires of the future.

Jerry E. Pournelle
Hollywood: Spring, 1986

Algis Budrys was born in Lithuania between the two halves of the civil war we call the World Wars. His father was a high official of the Lithuanian Diplomatic Corps; Algis Budrys grew up in the worlds of diplomacy and intrigue. The Hitler-Stalin Pact gave Lithuania (and two thirds of Poland) to the Soviet Union. The Lithuanian diplomatic corps abroad continued to represent the old Republic in such places as Britain and the United States where the Russian conquest was not recognized; and Budrys grew up as an exile.

To this day the United States has never formally recognized the incorporation of the Baltic Republics into the Soviet Empire; but when we signed the Helsinki Agreement we gave full recognition to the
de facto
borders of Europe and ceased to hold our annual observation of Captive Nations Week. In effect we abandoned a dozen nations to the tender mercies of the Soviet Union in exchange for a paper promise of "human rights" for the subjects of the Soviet Empire. The Russians did not precisely promise not to be beastly; but they did promise that they would be less beastly than was their prior practice.

To prove their devotion to the Helsinki pact, the Soviets promptly rounded up and jailed the Helsinki Watch Committee, a group of Soviet citizens who announced their intention of monitoring Soviet observation of the accord. They recently traded Anatoly Scharansky, one of the organizers of Helsinki Watch, for a group of legally convicted Soviet spies.

The Helsinki Agreement is said to be a triumph of American diplomacy. Whether or not that is so, it did pretty well end the hopes of exiled Baltic peoples. A few of their representatives in exile continue to operate consulates and embassies, but one hears less about them with every passing year. Their incorporation into the Soviet Empire is well nigh complete.

As the Soviet example shows, empire doesn't always mean drums and flags and an imperial majesty. On the other hand, even when you have all those, you may not have a real empire. The Great Mogul Emperor, descendent of Babur the Tiger, held his throne long after his word ceased to be obeyed outside his own palace; while the British built themselves quite a good empire long before they acknowledged what they had. It was an empire acquired almost by accident through a private company, and regularized only after the Great Sepoy Revolt. Once regularized it endured, of course. It was abandoned only when the Britons tired of rule.

In this classic tale Algis Budrys speaks of a time when mankind has been united, but has yet to find a place among the stars.

"We are the men of the Agency—
We're steadfast, stout-hearted, and brave.
For a buck we will duck
Through the worst that may come,
And argue the price of a grave.
"Oh, we are the Agency's bravos—
We peddle the wealth of our skill.
We will rescue your world or destroy it,
Depending on who foots the bill."

Anonymous

The tidy little orchestra finished the dance set and broke up, leaving behind the quartet nucleus, which began Schubert's "Fourteenth." The party guests dispersed through the room, talking in groups while the servants passed among them with refreshments.

Thaddeus Demaris brooded solemnly in a heavy chair near the fireplace, half-listening to the two well-kept men conversing nearby. One of them was Walker Holtz, the hunter. The other was Captain Romney Oxford, of Her Canadian Majesty's Legation in Detroit.

Walker Holtz fingered the stem of his boutonniere and took a sip of his liqueur. He leaned against the mantelpiece, let his eyes flick negligently over the crowd, and resumed his conversation.

"My dear Captain Oxford, I'll grant you artillery. Artillery and, in certain circumstances, infantry, But not aircraft. The British had the quality and the Americans the quantity."

"I don't see how you can say that," Oxford countered. He took a gulp of his drink and set it down firmly. "What about the Trans-Polar Campaign?"

Holtz raised his eyebrows. "I think it's generally accepted that Vitkovsky was able to commit his reserve fighter wings only because the Alaskan Air Command of the old United States Air Force was snowed in."

Oxford granted the point easily. "Quite so. And then Vitkovsky's transports would have suffered, say sixty percent interceptions over Quebec?"

"You're being generous, Captain," Holtz rejoindered. He inhaled gently over his glass before raising it to his lips. "I would have said fifty."

Oxford brushed the polite quibble aside with a graceful wave of his hand.

In his chair, Demaris smiled bitterly and scornfully. These men with their heads for the facts and figures of ancient military history—how many of them had ever heard a shot fired in anger?

"Well, then," Oxford was saying, scoring his point, "I should like to remind you, Colonel Holtz, that Vitkovsky's plan necessarily allowed for seventy percent interceptions. As it finally transpired, so many surplus troops landed in Illinois that an emergency quartermaster and clerical staff had to be flown in."

Holtz frowned, discomfitted.

Demaris stood up impatiently and snatched a liqueur from a passing servant's tray. The heavily flavored cordial bit at his tongue.

And for all the battles won in parlors and drawing rooms, where was Earth's frontier today?

His lip curled. He swung around and stabbed an extended forefinger at the startled Oxford. "I should like to point out," he bit off in the astonished man's face, "that what you have just cited was the USSR's suicidal policy of wasting men,
not
the superiority of its air arm, which was consistently hampered and eventually destroyed by a typical Russian insistence on trying to make a rapier do a bludgeon's work."

Holtz stepped between them, his temples throbbing and his nostrils white. "You are ungentle, sir."

Demaris looked at him coldly, a certain amount of anticipation tightening the curl of his fingers. "And you are a fool and an ass."

The muscles knotted at the corners of Holtz's thin jaw. He drew back his hand to slap. Demaris lifted his cheek a fraction of an inch, his head tilting to present a willing target. The buzz of conversation was dying in the room, smothering under a wave of rapt silence.

Oxford reached out hastily and pushed himself between Holtz and Demaris. "Eh . . . Colonel Holtz . . . I don't believe you've previously met Thaddeus Demaris. The introduction is my pleasure."

The pallid urgency in Oxford's eyes was mimicked by Holtz's sudden slackness of mouth. His arm lowered limply. "Ah? Uh . . . oh, no, Oxford,
my
pleasure, I'm sure—"

Demaris smashed the back of his hand across Holtz's face. The hunter stumbled back, one hand pressed to his nose. Oxford made a noise of protest. Demaris stood motionless, his face set.

Holtz regained his balance. "Really, Mr. Demaris," he mumbled, waving Oxford back, "my sincere apologies—"

Demaris looked at him with something much like disappointment. He spun on his heel and stalked off.

Even the night was dishonest. Laden with perfume, the artificially circulated air stirred a sham breeze across the balconade. A sickle of moon drifted among the gray-silver clouds. Behind him, Demaris could hear the last notes of "Death and the Maiden" fading politely away.

How far in the past was Oxford's and Holtz's war? Three hundred years. And after finishing that war, how far in the future did Man imagine his Empire of Earth lay, stretching out into the stars? One century? Two? With the interstellar drive and the Terrestrial Space Navy to ride it.

And where, now, was Earth's frontier, a full hundred years beyond that well-planned future?

Pluto. That's where it was. Just barely, Pluto.

All right. You could understand that. An empire only goes as far as its enemies will let it. A hundred years ago, the Vilks had drawn the line.

Demaris smashed his flat, horny palm down on the coping of the terrace. The slap of sound startled some of the strolling couples in the formal gardens, but it would have been ungentle for them to stare at him. He knew of their curiosity only by the fact that no face, among all those couples, turned toward him even at random.

His lips twitched back from the points of his teeth.

And with the Vilks fifty years gone in a pyrrhic war with Farla, you could expect the ships of Earth to be going out again. You could expect that.

You could die of the eating hunger in your stomach, expecting it. You could grow old, with strings for muscles and pudding for a brain, expecting it.

You could run up a string of successful, pointless duels. You could go to graceful, inbred gatherings in the elegant, bandbox mansions. You could listen to Schubert quartets and a lot of Delius. But there was damned little Beethoven, and no Stravinsky. There was yearning, and no fulfillment. Nor much of a desire for it. It was considered more gentle to simply yearn.

A servant touched his arm. "Your pardon, Messire—a Mr. Brown is on the vid."

Demaris fought to keep from spinning around violently. "Thank you," he said in a voice that, incredibly, was calm enough. He strolled back into the mansion. Brown! Thank God! He'd been going mad, waiting.

 
"We spill our all for the Agency—
(Our lives are excitingly gory.)
Pink or blue—any hue—
Save the red of our birth—
At the beck of crisp, green glory."