CENTRAL OFFICE, ARCHONAL PALACE
ARCHONA
DOMINATION OF THE DRAKA
FEBRUARY 15, 1998
"So," Eric von Shrakenberg said, looking at the head of the Technical Section. The table was more crowded for this conference than it had been for the final one on the Stone Dogs. "Strategos Snappdove, what you sayin' is basically that we in the position of a man in a desert with a bucket of water. There's enough to get us to safety, but we got a dozen holes in the bucket and only one patch." Somebody actually managed to laugh, until Eric stared at her for a moment with red-circled eyes.
The Militant Party's man frowned. "None of the problems seem insoluble, on the figures," he said suspiciously.
Eric kept his face impassive; somewhere within him, teeth were bared. You'll be dancing to our tune for some time, headhunter, he thought coldly. The wall-screens were set to a number of channels; one showed the streets outside. Rain was falling out of season, mixed with frozen slush... We humans may have earned this, went through him. The plants and the beasts did not. His hand gestured to the scientist.
"Ah." Snappdove tugged at his graying beard. He looked as if he had not slept for a week, and then in his uniform, but that was common enough here today.
"Hmm," he continued. "Strategos, you are missing the, ah, the synergies between these problems." His hands moved on the table before him, calling up data. They scrolled across one wall, next to a view of Draka infantry advancing cautiously through a shattered town. The troops were in full environment suits, ghosting forward across rubble that glistened with rain. It was raining in most places, right now.
"We lost some eight percent of our Citizen population," he went on, "and fifteen percent of the serfs. Two hundred twenty million in all. But these losses are concentrated in the most highly skilled, educated components, you see? Then again, three-quarters of our Earth-based manufacturin' capacity is still operable. But crucial components are badly hit. And to rebuild, we need items that can only come from zero-G fabricators: exemplia, superconductors and high quality bearings. Not to mention the electronics, of course."
"Ghost in the machine," the Farraday Electromagnetic Combine exec half-mumbled. They all glanced over at her. "We still haven't gotten certain-sure tracers on that comp-plague," she went on, and returned her gaze to her hands. "May have to close down all the fabricators commissioned in the last decade—what's left of them—an' start from scratch."
Snappdove nodded. "So we need the orbital fabricators. But we lost mo' than sixty percent of those. And more of our launch capacity. We must rapidly increase our launch capacity, but" – he spread his hands – "much of the material needed for all forms of Earth-to-orbit launch is space-made. And so it goes."
"Not to mention mo' elemental problems. Miz Lauwrence?"
The Conservancy Directorate chief raised her head from her hands. "We stopped short of killing the planet," she said dully. There's someone who looks worse than I do, Eric thought with mild astonishment. "Just. Lucky the worst effects were in the northern hemisphere, where it was winter anyways. Even so" – she waved a hand to the screen that showed freezing rain dripping on the jacarandas and orange groves – "damn-all crops this year from anywheres. Not much in the north fo' one, maybeso two years. Oceanic productivity will be way down, we got ice formin' in the Adriatic, fo' Freya's sake. Even half normal will take a decade; it'll be a century befo' general levels are back to normal." A death's-head smile. "That's assuming some beautiful synergism doesn't kick us right ovah the edge."
Eric looked over at 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 rationing. 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 firefight was stabbing tongues of orange-red through the gray drizzle.
"We have some very limited reconnaissance and interdiction assets left in orbit, and there's 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 if'n we have to give priority to economic uses of our launch capacity. We're occupyin' 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. The Stone Dogs had disabled more of their submarine launchers than they had expected, but Trincomalee had taken a hypersonic at short range a few days ago. "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 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 a matter of materiel as of trained personnel."
"Aerospace?" Eric said.
A nod from another of the Arch-Strategoi. "Well," she said, "in Cis-Lunar space, we won. Only Alliance installations survivin' are in Britannia an' New Edo" – two Alliance colonies on Luna – "with our people sittin' on them. Aresopolis came off surprisin' well, which is a good thing because fuck all we goin' give them these next few years."
"Outer system."
A shrug. "Excellence, Mars is secure, not least because what's left of the Fleet is mostly in orbit around it. A lot of them with their comp-cores blown, but thankfully the latest compinstruction set upgrades were far from bein' completed. Not much damage to the Martian installations; the Prothean bunker wasn't hurt at all, Freya bless, and the others have been experimentin' mostly with the alien computer architecture, so those computers affected by the comp-plague were able to be rerouted through those research terminals." Another shrug. "As fo' the gas-giant moons and the mass relay, we won. We be lucky to keep them supplied, assumin' no hostile action, but we won."
"And in the Belt?"
"We lost. They whupped our ass, Excellence. Damn near all the sublight ships we sent out that way were destroyed by they FTL ships, whittled down by hit and run raids. The loss of the Phaeton against their New America has given us a better estimation of its capabilites, which is considerable. 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." A shrug. "Reverse holds true fo' us too. Mars and Cis-Lunar space has ground and station-based weapons as well, and they starship moves slow enough that we'd be able to see it comin' and ready defenses. They mass effect ships could be annoyin', but we have particle beams that could tear them up just as easy as they tore up the Phaeton."
"Dominarch," Eric said formally, "is it you 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 looked down at his hands in thought. Finally, he spoke. "Depends on you 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 toward 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 bushmen 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 at least over a million ferals still left in the Belt – numbers can't be certain sure aftah all that homesteadin' they were promotin' in the last decade – an' they have that starship and the facility that built it. We have more element zero to draw on than they do, but the transport an' guardin' problems... And they are standin' above us on the gravity well." A long pause. "All factors considered... yes." Eric didn't like the note of uncertainty in his voice. "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 as well; they won't have nearly as much to spare fo' research now, but they've been surprisin' us with even the small amount of artifacts and info'mation they got from the convoy they raided. So..." He spread his hands.
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 the starship actually leaves."
"Oh. Much better. Same prediction here on Earth; then... oh, say fifty or sixty 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. We finish de-icin' the mass relay at Charon. We still not sure what's on the other side of it – could lead to the heart of a star or a black hole. We could send probes, but they wouldn't be able to send signals back if the Prothean data is accurate." He inclined his head to Snappdove, who nodded.
"They're supposed to be able to instantly transport whatever is sent through thousands of light years away," he said. "No signals could get back for decades, if not centuries. The only way to know fo' sure what's on the other side is to send somebody through."
The Archon nodded. "So we allow the New America and whatever other ships they got left to leave; no Draka lives need be risked, and they wiped off the board here in the system. 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 – just letting them go, to establish a colony on the other side of that instantaneous transport relay; an insane risk! They could come back any time!"
"No guarantee there's even a safe transit through the thing, let alone a terrestroid body," Eric said. "Strategos Snappdove?" The Militant flushed, knowing this was a collusion and unable to use the fact.
"Ah. Well, we estimate they could take no more than a hundred thousand on the New America, assuming they use our Low-Met process; drastically more if they utilize every hull they have left in the solar system, maybe even rig up some of they habitats for transpo't. Even so, no matter how well equipped, this is a 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 the best-case fo' them, fifty years after arrival at an Earth-like terrestroid body befo' they are established firmly enough to think of anything beyond bare survival. Therefo' we can expect no hostile action for sixty to seventy-five years, at an absolute minimum. Mo' probably another fifty beyond that.
"Besides which," he went on, "our studies indicate conclusively that attackin' a defended star system is virtually impossible. 'Specially with these mass relays; we could have a fleet standin' by and be ready to fire on them when they appear while rallyin' the rest of the system's defenses against the incursion. Even in the short-term, we'll be mo' powerful than a strugglin' colony could possibly be. If they did attack us, we could swat them like mosquitoes."
"Beyond that, it isn't as if we won't be stayin' here fo' very long if the transit is proven to be safe," Eric commented. "The data says the Protheans have an entire network of these relays out there, out across the entire galaxy. And 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 out there besides the Protheans, and they just up and disappeared fifty thousand years ago; they might not even be around any more. The universe isn't enough of a challenge, it isn't conscious; without some rival, what is the Race to measure itself against?"
Eric waited until the expressions showed the argument had been assimilated, the balance of doubt weighed, and acceptance.
"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
APRIL 15, 1998
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 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 us 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 from reachin' the mass relay, or from headin' fo' Alpha Centauri. We can only 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 a 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?
Frederick Lefarge glared at the lined, hawk-nosed face on the screen. The worse part of it all is that he's right, he thought, clenching his teeth. Our people have seen too much death, have seen the Alliance go down in ruins. I'm responsible for them all, and, he reluctantly conceded, they can't be blamed for just wanting to live.
The words Uncle Nate had told him over twenty years ago when he offered him the job of heading the New America Project came back: Seeds, animals, frozen animal ova, tools, knowledge, fabricators... all the art and history and philosophy the human race has produced. Enough to restart civilization – our civilization. America was started by refugees, son. What's your say?
He couldn't let it all die here. Still, having to admit defeat to this smug, aristocratic Draka was galling.
"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?"
Von Shrakenberg 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? Neither of us knows if the Protheans are still out there; we'll know y'all are out there. We won't be able to follow y'all anytime soon either – that's anothah thing we can arrange to verify. 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."
Lefarge nodded curtly and, without another word, cut the connection. He stared at the blank screen for a moment, then rubbed a hand over his face. Oh God, am I doing the right thing? His mother, Chantal, had raised he and Marya to be religious. She had even pushed Marya to become a sister of the cloth but, in the end, she had followed him into the OSS. A pang as he remembered his twin sister, dead by her own hand on Mars after killing Yolande Ingolfsson. What would you say, ma soeur?
"I don't like this," Anson MacDonald said, "not one bit."
Lefarge stared at the man dully. He was a lean, bald man in his mid-fifties, the graying hair he had left cropped close to the sides and back of his skull, a thin line of mustache – darker than the hair on his head – just above his upper lip. And he was, of all things, a US Navy commodore, wearing a deep blue uniform. He had been on a familiarization tour with the Space Force at the exact moment when the Snakes had decided to launch the Final War.
His rank was equivalent to Lefarge's own, so the two of them were technically equal in the military hierarchy. As head of the Project, however, the OSS brigadier outranked him in practice.
"Always thought this New America business was madness," MacDonald continued. "Defeatist madness. We would have done better to put all this energy, all this manpower, all these resources, into first-strike capability. I always said so, to anyone who would listen. Not enough people did."
"And maybe we would have lost all those people, all those resources, to the Snakes' virus," Lefarge replied evenly. "As it is, this is the only way any part of the Alliance for Democracy – of the United States of America – is going to survive."
"I still don't like it." MacDonald's tone was bitter. "Those sons of bitches are going to turn the free men and women of the United States and the rest of the Alliance into serfs. Do you know what that is, Brigadier? It's the biggest rape in the history of the world."
Lefarge sighed. "I happen to agree with you, Commodore. But, unfortunately, it's done. Our duty now is to the people of the Alliance for Democracy that are left. We swore our oaths to preserve, protect and defend them." In his mind's eye, he could see the face of the Draka Archon again. No matter how much we hate it.