Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire (45 page)

I doubt that the full history of World War Three will ever be known. All I saw of it came one midnight in Kansas. I'd been in the Fort Riley Officers' Club, watching the "Tonight" show. The guest host began one of the stock routines, the one about the Native Chief and the Drunken Sailor, at which point I walked out. The audience knew who the characters symbolized, but I couldn't laugh with them. I went outside to smoke a cigarette.

The Soviets must have fired first. I saw the meteor trails of the warheads and rockets as they came in from the north, heading for our missile silos. SAC was on the ball that night, and I saw a pair of our MX missiles take off. Then warheads and missiles began exploding. Somewhere high over the Atlantic,
Scented Vine
was having target practice.

The next day the Aliens apologized for interfering with our tribal dispute, and explained that our fight would have endangered the Aliens among us. I don't know how many people heard their broadcast; things had become hectic, and panic evacuations and riots were running everywhere. The government's authority crumbled overnight. The close call with Armageddon had been bad enough, but the Aliens' casual intervention left the government looking ridiculous, like a naughty boy who'd just had his slingshot confiscated by his mommy. The federal government disintegrated within days. The Soviets held out for a full week before falling themselves. I suppose some governments survived a bit longer, until the growing chaos overwhelmed them.

I understood how those South Pacific natives felt, when their women became disease-ridden whores, and their men turned into alcoholics, and strange gods replaced their old faiths. Like them, we'd been helpless in the face of a superior culture. The fact that we'd seen it coming only made it worse.

For a while I thought that my wife and child were all right. After all, no A-bombs had gone off anywhere. Even when I heard about the widespread food riots, the raiders and vigilantes, I assumed that Marcia and our baby would pull through. It wasn't until my infantry unit disbanded and I went home that I learned otherwise. I don't want to remember that.

I saw the group of Aliens shortly after that, playing with a group of chasers. One of the Aliens had a zapper, while the others carried human rifles. They took turns, zapping and shooting their prey at random. The chasers didn't seem to care; their addiction was that powerful. I don't want to remember that, either.

I drifted for a while—and then I found the Colonel.

"I expect them to land near us," Colonel Washington said the next day. His voice, normally as flat as stale water, had an odd animation in it now. Eagerness for battle, perhaps, although I couldn't say. I've worked with the Colonel since before the foundation of the Republic, and I know next to nothing about him . . . aside from the fact that he gives the impression it is best to know nothing of him.

Gwen, the speaker, and I were the only ones in the room with him as the Colonel described the situation. "We have electric power, lights, and a radio service—and no reason to think that anyone else on Earth has our level of technology."

"We haven't picked up any radio signals," I agreed. Our radio service exists to serve the Republic's communication needs, but ever since it started, our techs have tried to contact other people out there. Being the only enclave of civilization in a darkening world is a lonely feeling. Hearing from other people would have been as welcome a morale boost as anything I can name.

"We can assume that the Aliens have already detected
our
signals," the Colonel said. "They must make an excellent beacon. Unless they land at random, they will want to investigate them. And us."

Speaker Ryan sighed. "In that case, we should plan for the worst. Colonel, can we repel an Alien landing?"

"I see no choice."

She looked impatient. "That doesn't answer my question."

The Colonel shrugged. "I have no idea of how this Alien ship is armed, or why it is here. The
Scented Vine
was a cargo ship; its crew carried only light hand weapons. We had no defense against them."

"We had you, Colonel," I said.

I wondered what the look on his face meant. "I believe my final assault surprised the Aliens. I cannot know. The worst case I can imagine is that this ship is a punitive expedition, here to punish us for fighting
Scented Vine
's crew. They could be heavily armed."

"In which case, we fight," the Speaker said. "You're correct, Colonel, we have no choice about that. The question is, what will we do if they show up and
don't
attack? That could be just as dangerous."

"No!" Gwen smacked a hand on the conference table. "This isn't 1997. We won't collapse the way the old world did when those monsters showed up—we
can't
. Madam Speaker, if they attack, we fight. If they decide to play tourist again, we tell them to screw themselves."

" 'Indulge in self-impregnation,' " the Colonel said. "Their translating machines didn't handle idioms very well."

"Whatever," Gwen said. "There's no danger of a repeat of 1997, so we've no cause to worry about it. The war with Weyler is our real problem. Now—"

A courier interrupted her. The young man came in, gave the Speaker a note and left. "Weyler's shown up at Coalville," she said.

I felt alarmed; Coalville supplies most of our energy. Gwen looked equally alarmed; if Weyler's men had done any serious damage there, then we had just lost more than a war. "What's the situation?" Washington asked.

"They came under a white flag," Ryan said. "Weyler, a small bodyguard, and some of his flunkies. He'll be here in a couple of days. He wants to negotiate a settlement."

"He can negotiate an unconditional surrender," Gwen said promptly.

"He won't do that," Washington said.

Gwen shrugged. "Then let's shoot the bastard, and let his successor surrender. Madam Speaker—"

"Cut it out, Gwen."

"Kate, we cannot afford to negotiate with Weyler." She jabbed the tabletop with a finger. "It's exactly what he wants: to be seen dealing with us as an equal. That'll give him a lot of prestige with the other warlords."

"We've negotiated with his kind before," I said.

"But we've always called the shots," Gwen said. "We've
forced
them to negotiate, and to give up everything we wanted. We've always used 'peace talks' to emphasize our supremacy. Let's not forget that."

"No one has forgotten," Washington said.

"Good." Gwen looked at him. "Colonel, what's the best course of action?"

Don't ask me what he thought before he answered. "The best course of action is for me to follow the orders I receive. If—"

The last time any of us had heard that noise had been when the last Alien shuttlecraft had lifted from Earth. It was a low, insistent throb, and it made the windowpanes vibrate. It got louder for a moment, then cut off abruptly.

Kate Ryan got up and looked out the window. "There's a force-field dome on top of Signal Hill."

Gwen joined her at the window. She spoke with the aplomb that had placed her in charge of the Expansionist Party. "Ah. So there is. Now, what are we going to do about Weyler?" That "we" wasn't presumption on Gwen's part; "we" were now a
de facto
coalition government.

Ryan turned away from the window. "We'll wait for Weyler to arrive. That will give us time to plan." She sighed. "I hope."

"We don't need time to plan," Gwen said. "We already know what to do."

I was at home, having breakfast, when Weyler's entourage arrived. I thanked the courier who brought me the note, closed the door and went back to the table. "Is it bad news?" Janie asked.

"Weyler's here." I put the note away and went back to eating.

"There's nothing about
them?
" Michael asked.

"No, the Aliens are still inside their bubble. Pass the salt?"

"Does anyone know when they'll come out?" Janie asked. "There's a lot of uncertainty, Tad. The Exchange was a madhouse yesterday. Wheat and corn prices have gone up twenty percent since they landed."

"The Aliens haven't announced any plans," I told her. After twenty-two years, I've learned not to soft-soap my wife. She can pin me down with the same ruthless ease she uses on the trading floor. "Colonel Washington has brought in two platoons to watch them, but they're going to give Weyler's tribe most of their attention."

She nodded. "Is the Colonel staying in town?"

"For the duration, sweets."

"Can he handle the Aliens?"

"Ma, he's the
Colonel
." Like most teenage boys, our youngest child has a tendency toward hero-worship. "Of course he can take them again!"

"Right." I finished my apple juice and got up. "I should get down to the Concourse now."

Signal Hill is the highest hill in the Capital City region. Back in the early days, you could see the entire Republic from its peak, so we mounted some heliographs up there and used it to flash messages everywhere. Now that damned Alien bubble was sending its own message to everyone within sight.

That sight depressed me as much as the uncertainty. Had they come back to finish the job the
Scented Vine
had begun? Back in 1997 the Aliens had destroyed Terran civilization with the deftness of a karate expert splitting a log. For all anyone knew, they derived artistic satisfaction from wrecking alien cultures. There was no telling what to expect.

The uncertainty was a killer for me. I'd lost everything in the Collapse, and so had Janie. Only the birth of the Republic, and the plans to restore civilization, had given us the confidence to start new lives. Things could never be the same, but we believed they would get better again.

Now it was 2024, we had our first grandchild, and what in hell could we expect next?

I was halfway to the Concourse when I saw Washington. I hurried to catch up with him; he has a quick, marching walk which discourages company. "I've arranged a campground for the savages on the north slope of Signal Hill," he told me. "If they make trouble, we can contain them with one platoon."

"And the Aliens?" I puffed.

"We now have three platoons nearby, plus a mortar team and four aircraft. That's all we can spare."

"How are things in the Neutral Zone?"

"Tense, Mr. Secretary. My scouts report that all of the local warlords are mobilizing. They expect the Aliens to destroy us and allow them to move in."

"Then they're in for a disappointment." Gwen Parsons joined us. "Colonel, could you slow down, please?"

"Certainly, ma'am." He slowed and I caught my breath.

"Thanks. We shouldn't let Weyler think we're in a hurry to see him."

A good point, that. "Are you ready to slit his throat?" I asked.

"That would backfire," the Colonel said. "Before Weyler left home, his shamans made a few convenient prophecies. If he dies here, even from natural causes, we'll take the blame."

"And he'll become a martyr?" Gwen sighed in resignation. "Oh, well."

The Colonel had given the savages a good place for a bivouac—good for us, that is. The ground was flat, with rises on all sides, and he had stationed a squad at each corner of a square. If the savages acted up, they'd die in the crossfire.

I had to wonder if Weyler wanted that. I'll never know if the man was insane or sincere, but he gave every sign of believing his paganisms. If he died here, he might become the kind of symbol that could unite the other outlanders against us in war. We could handle them one at a time, but not
en masse
.

The Colonel, Gwen, and I walked into Weyler's camp, under the eyes of our sentries. First and foremost, the camp stank. Sanitation was something Weyler's people had forgotten. They'd pitched a few lean-tos, to house their leader and his counselors. It looked like the dozen warriors who'd escorted them would sleep out in the open.

Outlanders. They were all male, of course. They wore uncured animal hides and warpaint, but the thing that got my attention was their necklaces. Each one was made of human finger bones, taken from killed enemies, supposedly as a magical way of retaining the enemy's strength.

Gwen seemed unmoved by that sight, or by the variety of knives, spears, and arrows the warriors carried. She glanced at all of them, then gave one a frankly female look that said
you might not be too bad in the hay, if we got you cleaned up
. Bless her for that; her look disconcerted them more than anything I could have said.

Weyler crawled out of his lean-to and approached us. I was surprised to see how old he was—about sixty, I'd say. Few outlanders live beyond their late twenties; even in the Republic, where we have plenty of food and some medicines, sixty years is quite an age—I should know; I'm pushing it myself. He looked ascetic rather than scrawny, with whipcord muscles under the tan and dirt. His eyes gleamed as he paused to look at the force field. No doubt their arrival was a new factor in his plans, but not one that would upset them.

He looked at us with contempt. "The weaklings of the New Renaissance. The people who would rebuild the old world and repeat its blunders. We have come to talk to your ruler."

"She's busy judging a beauty pageant," Gwen said. "You're a bit late to enter, but we can hold a spot for you and your chorus line in next year's contest."

The warriors shifted around uneasily. None of them looked old enough to remember chorus lines and beauty pageants, but they couldn't miss her mockery, and they weren't used to this treatment.

Only Weyler maintained any dignity. "We will wait. We have far more time than you." He turned and looked at the force field bubble. "The Dark Gods have numbered your days." He looked to Washington and spoke before Gwen could respond. "And is the beloved hero ready to fight them again?"

"I am," Washington said.

Weyler smiled cynically. "Will it matter to you if you win or lose? No, let it pass." Abruptly he returned to his lean-to.

We walked away, but I waited until we were out of earshot before speaking. "Were you trying to provoke him?" I asked Gwen.

"No," she said. "The absurdity got to me. Weyler's a grown man! He taught college before the Collapse. Now he talks like he believes that 'Dark Gods' granola, and he acts as if he has generations of tradition behind his noble-savage act."