"Mule…"

Summary: My AU version of the Asimov tale from his collection of Foundation and Second Foundation tales.

Even as civil war threatens the mighty but flawed Foundation, the Galaxy's greatest power since the Fall of the great Galactic Empire, its road to eventual triumph as the reuniting force in the Galaxy yet (supposedly) guaranteed by the quasi-mystical Seldon Plan, a mysterious warlord of a new and rapidly rising power is maneuvering to seize domination of the Galaxy in defiance of Seldon.

Part XVI…

Pritcher leaned back from his calculations…In the small space of Goldan's "Herve" control room, it wasn't easy for him to lean over the hyperspace control plate too easily, despite the ship ostensibly being designed for two for long-range interstellar travel. Yet, for Goldan, he noted to himself a bit wryly, it was impossible and the boy's calculations could only be done on the screen of his chair, which he'd still managed to finish before the Captain's.

"Looks like we reach similar conclusions." Pritcher nodded. "Listen, Goldan." He eyed the younger man in his chair by the console. "I know we're taking quite a risk based on the word of a man we don't know. If you feel…Uncertain…"

"Captain…" Goldan shook head. "We're here to try and find the Mule, or at least his origins. If that means taking more long chances, I'm good with it. The man killed my father and turned people he cared about into his servants. I'm good with whatever gives us a chance of stopping him. If our calculations are matching up, lets just punch it. And before we get caught out here."

"All right…" Pritcher nodded. "This jump should get us to Trevlon and this Lord Vargos. We'll see if it's anything, a trap, or simple huey. Just bear in mind, it could be a trap."

"Right. And lets hope Vargos will or can talk. Assuming he did know the Mule early on."

"Lets hope." Pritcher agreed, punching in coordinates.
…

The Trevlon system is by no means famed for its medical facilities…Though they exist and as the sector goes in the Galaxy's vast sprawl, they're quite modern, they are hardly on the level of the best of the Foundation or even a reasonably modern world like Kalgan. However, if you both want to grant an injured or disabled friend or family member reasonably good care and see that "friend" or family member kept secure, in an isolated backwater, you have found your place.

A moderate-sized red giant with five planets, three in temperate zones but two tidally locked by their nearness to their sun, Trevlon has never sparked a great deal of interest since being settled between 7935 and 8026 GE. A battle was fought just outside the system by Imperial rivals in 11795 GE but apart from that bit of excitement nothing much has ever happened. The system's been a quiet place for those wishing to retire from the more bustling areas of Imperial development and more recently, Imperial and Galactic chaos. While the facilities are generally good, it's really the quiet that appeals to those visiting, or depositing others, here.

The Herve came out of its jump on the edge of planet three's orbit. That planet, Canta, a tidally locked world settled in a few spots on its temperate ridge between the light and dark zones and primarily a mining colony for the rest of the system and the few local settled systems. The Herve headed for the fourth planet, honored with the system's name, Trevlon, and what passed for the capital of the system, its orbit just far enough to allow full rotation yet be inside the temperate zone, with a quite mild climate, secured by an efficient weather control grid.

"We can fake pretty much any Galactic id here but given my condition…And the fact this is largely a medical facility…" Goldan grinned to Pritcher. "I'd say, brother, we come from Zebu, one of the Darkan system's planets. It's not too far to travel for medical advice, on some trade routes, and a little wild, meaning it'll be harder to check our story. I got shot up in the war while a mercenary and you're a fellow Zebuan, a brother soldier bringing me home but got concerned for my condition. I can arrange things with me to keep the docs there busy. Plausible?"

"Plausible, brother comrade." Pritcher nodded. "If you'll keep their people busy, I'll see if I can find this Vargos and get something out of him."

"Of course, if he is the Mule's, he may say nothing but help, guards." Goldan noted wryly.

"Then I'll simply explain I was secretly sent from Kalgan to check on the Mule's old friend." Pritcher shrugged. "We'll have to take our chances. Well, they'll be picking us up soon. Lets get a request in and see if their customs boys are antsy."

…

If Canta of the Trevlon system was a ribbon world, forever locked between light and dark halves, of which the Galaxy boasts sufficient numbers, but among which the inhabited variety are a rarity, for the physical requirements allowing habitation are difficult to meet, Radole was an exception. A world not only where the two halves face the monotonous extremes of heat and cold and the only region of possible life is the girdling ribbon of the twilight zone, but one of those ribbon worlds where life in the ribbon could be varied and pleasant. Radole City, the capital, was located in such a one. It spread along the soft slopes of the foothills before the hacked-out mountains that backed it along the rim of the cold hemisphere and held off the frightful ice. The warm, dry air of the sun-half spilled over, and from the mountains was piped the water, and between the two, Radole City became a continuous garden, swimming in the eternal morning of an eternal June. Each house nestled among its flower garden, open to the fangless, repressed elements. Each garden was a horticultural forcing ground, where luxury plants grew in fantastic patterns for the sake of the foreign exchange they brought, until Radole had almost become a producing world, rather than a typical Trading world. So, in its way, Radole City was a little point of softness and luxury on a horrible planet…A tiny scrap of Eden, its inhabitants liked to call it…And that, too, was a factor in the logic of its choice. The strangers had come from each of the twenty-six other Trading worlds: delegates, wives, secretaries, newsmen, ships, and crews, causing Radole's population to nearly double and its resources to strain themselves to the limit. One ate at will, and drank at will, and slept not at all. Yet there were few among the roisterers who were not intensely aware that all the vast volume of the civilized Galaxy burnt now slowly in a sort of quiet, slumbrous war at the moment, after an initial fierce outbreak. And of those present and aware, there were three classes. First, there were the many who knew little and were very confident: Such as the young space pilot in one of the many overcrowded taverns, who wore the Haven cockade on the clasp of his cap, and who managed, in holding his glass before his eyes, to catch those of the faintly smiling Radolian girl opposite. He was saying… "We came right through the war-zone to get here, on purpose. We traveled about a light-minute or so, in neutral, right past Horleggor."

"Horleggor?" broke in a long-legged native, who was playing host to that particular gathering. "That's where the Mule got the guts beat out of him last week, wasn't it?"

"Where'd you hear that the Mule got the guts beat out of him?" demanded the pilot, loftily.

"Foundation broadcast."

"Yeah? Well, the Mule's got Horleggor." The pilot noted, firmly. "We almost ran into a convoy of his ships, and that's where they were coming from. It isn't a gut-beating when you stay where you fought, and the gut-beater leaves in a hurry."

Someone else said in a high, blurred voice, "Don't talk like that. Foundation always takes it on the chin for a while. You watch; just sit tight and watch. Ol' Foundation knows when to come back. And then, pow!" The thick voice concluded and was succeeded by a bleary grin.

"Anyway," said the pilot from Haven, after a short pause, "as I say, we saw the Mule's ships, and they looked pretty good, pretty good. I tell you what, they looked new."

"New?" said the native, thoughtfully. "They build them themselves?" He broke a leaf from an overhanging branch, sniffed delicately at it, then crunched it between his teeth, the bruised tissues bleeding greenly and diffusing a minty odor. He said, "You trying to tell me they beat Foundation ships with home-built jobs? Go on."

"We saw them, doc. And I can tell a ship from a comet, too, you know."

The native leaned close. "You know what I think. Listen, don't kid yourself. Wars don't just start by themselves, and we have a bunch of shrewd apples running things. They know what they're doing."

The well-unthirsted one said with sudden loudness, "You watch ol' Foundation. They wait for the last minute, then pow!" He grinned with vacuously open mouth at the girl, who moved away from him.

The Radolian was saying, "For instance, old man, you think maybe that this Mule guy's running things. No-o-o." And he wagged a finger horizontally. "The way I hear it, and from pretty high up, mind you, he's our boy. We're paying him off, and we probably built those ships. Let's be realistic about it, we probably did. Sure, he can't beat the Foundation in the long run, but he can get them shaky, and when he does then we get in, wipe up the Indburs and that's that."

The girl said, "Is that all you can talk about, Klev? The war? You make me tired."

The pilot from Haven said, in an excess of gallantry, "Change the subject. Can't make the girls tired." The bedewed one took up the refrain and banged a mug to the rhythm. The little groups of two that had formed broke up with giggles and swagger, and a few similar groups of twos emerged from the sun-house in the background. The conversation became more general, more varied, more meaningless.

Then there were those who knew a little more and were less confident. Such as the one-armed Fran, father of Toran, whose large bulk represented Haven as official delegate to the conference, and who lived high in consequence, and cultivated new friendships, with women when he could, and with men when he had to. It was on the sun platform of the hilltop home, of one of these new friends, that he relaxed for the first of what eventually proved to be a total of two times while on Radole. The new friend was Iwo Lyon, a kindred soul of Radole. Iwo's house was apart from the general cluster, apparently alone in a sea of floral perfume and insect chatter. The sun platform was a grassy strip of lawn set at a forty-five-degree angle, and upon it, Fran stretched out and fairly sopped up sun. He said, "Don't have anything like this on Haven."

Iwo replied, sleepily, "Ever seen the cold side? There's a spot twenty miles from here where the oxygen runs like water."

"Go on."

"Fact."

"Well, I'll tell you, Iwo. In the old days before my arm was chewed off, I knocked around, see, and you won't believe this, but…". The story that followed lasting considerably, and Iwo didn't believe it.

Iwo said, through yawns, "They don't make them like in the old days, that's the truth."

"Well, now," Fran fired up, "don't say that. I told you about my son, didn't I? He's one of the old school, if you like. He'll make a great Trader, blast it. He's his old man up and down. Up and down, except that he gets married."

"You mean legal contract? With a girl?"

"That's right. Don't see the sense in it myself. They went to Kalgan for their honeymoon."

"Kalgan? Kalgan? When the Galaxy was this?"

Fran smiled broadly, and said with slow meaning, "Just before the Mule declared war on the Foundation."

"That so?"

Fran nodded and motioned Iwo closer with his head. He said, hoarsely, "In fact, I can tell you something, if you don't let it go any further. My boy was sent to Kalgan for a purpose. Now I wouldn't like to let it out, you know, just what the purpose was, naturally, but you look at the situation now, and I suppose you can make a pretty good guess. In any case, my boy was the man for the job. We Traders needed some sort of ruckus." He smiled, craftily. "It's here. I'm not saying how we did it, but, my boy went to Kalgan, and the Mule sent out his ships. My son!"

Iwo was duly impressed. He grew confidential in his turn, "That's good. You know, they say we've got eight hundred ships ready to pitch in on our own at the right time."

Fran said authoritatively, "More than that, maybe. This is real strategy. This is the kind I like." He clawed loudly at the skin of his abdomen. "But don't you forget that the Mule is a smart boy, too. What happened at Horleggor worries me."

"Well, I heard he lost about thirty ships."

"Sure, but he had a hundred more, and the Foundation had to get out. It's all to the good to have those Indburs and their lackeys beaten, but not as quickly as all that." He shook his head.

"The question I ask…" Iwo pondered. "Is where does the Mule get his ships? There's a widespread rumor we're making them for him."

"We? The Traders? Haven has the biggest ship factories anywhere in the independent worlds, and we haven't made one for anyone but ourselves. Do you suppose any world is building a fleet for the Mule on its own, without taking the precaution of united action? That's a . . . A fairy tale."

"Well, where does he get them?"

And Fran shrugged, "Makes them himself, I suppose. That worries me, too." Fran blinked at the sun and curled his toes about the smooth wood of the polished footrest. Slowly, he fell asleep and the soft burr of his breathing mingled with sounds of the insects buzzing and fliting about.

Lastly, there were the very few who knew considerable and were not confident at all. Such as Randu, newly arrived from his negotiations on Terminus, who on the fifth day of the all-Trader convention entered the Central Hall and found the two persons, he had asked to be there, waiting for him. The five hundred seats were empty, and, unknown to the delegates, were now going to stay so. Randu said quickly, almost before he sat down, "We three represent about half the military potential of the Independent Trading Worlds."

"Yes," said Mangin of Iss, "my colleague and I have already commented upon the fact. Is it done? Will Indbur negotiate?"

"He signed a preliminary treaty. I have it here, on my pad." Randu pressed button. "Now, you two do as well as the governments. We need immediate approval, meaning there's no time for debate. It's time for the conference to end."

"Indbur came to the table…Unbelievable…" Mangin, a tall, dour man frowned. "I'd hoped we'd be carrying his ashes out of the ruins of the Mayor's Palace."

"I am ready," said Randu, "to speak quickly and earnestly. I am not interested in bargaining or subtlety. Our position is radically in the worse."

"As a result of…" asked, the third, Ovall Gri of Mnemon, a short but powerfully built woman who'd kept her Trader career murky but highly profitable, until she'd risen to become the leading force of Mnemon's Council.

"Of developments of the last weeks, even the last hour. Please! Let me start from the beginning. First, our position is not of our doing, and but doubtfully of our control. Our original dealings were not with the Mule, but with several others, notably the ex-warlord of Kalgan, whom the Mule defeated at a most inconvenient time for us."

"Yes, but this Mule could be a worthy substitute," said Mangin. "I do not cavil at details."

"Details…" Ovall frowned. "The fool fired upon our ships when we tried to negotiate. Details indeed…"

"It could have been in error…A rash act of a subordinate." Mangin suggested. "Can't we at least consider an alternative to dealing with Indbur?"

"You may not when you know all the details." Randu leaned forward and placed his hands upon the table palms-up in an obvious gesture. He said, "A month ago I sent my nephew and my nephew's wife to Kalgan."

"Your nephew!" cried Ovall Gri, in surprise. "I did not know he was your nephew."

"With what purpose," asked Mangin, dryly. "This?" And his thumb drew an inclusive circle high in the air.

"No. If you mean the Mule's war on the Foundation, no. How could I aim so high? The young man knew nothing, neither of our organization nor of our aims. He was told I was a minor member of an intra-Haven patriotic society, and his function at Kalgan was nothing but that of an amateur observer. My motives were, I must admit, rather obscure. Mainly, I was curious about the Mule. He is a strange phenomenon, but that's a chewed cud, I'll not go into it. Secondly, it would make an interesting and educational training project for a man who had experience with the Foundation and the Foundation underground and showed promise of future usefulness to us. You see…"

Ovall's long face fell into vertical lines as she showed her large teeth, "You must have been surprised at the outcome, then, since there is not a world among the Traders, I believe, that does not know that this nephew of yours abducted a Mule underling in the name of the Foundation and furnished the Mule with a casus belli. Galaxy, Randu, you spin romances. I find it hard to believe you had no hand in that. Come, it was a skillful job."

Randu shook his white head, "Not of my doing. Nor, willfully, of my nephew's, who is now held prisoner at the Foundation, and may not live to see the completion of this so-skillful job. I have spoke briefly with him and his status is uncertain. His wife…"

"Ah, the wife…" Ovall grinned, her teeth showing. "The fool hitched himself to a Foundationer." Shake of head… "Instead of a free pact with a proper Trader's woman."

"She's a member of the Opposition on Terminus and a capable girl." Randu, firmly. "The boy made a fine choice and stands by it. As do I. Consider her family and an ally and lets say no more of that."

"Fine." Ovall shrugged. "No offense intended."

"I still say, treaty or no, we should consider the Mule a golden opportunity." Mangin insisted. "We have leverage with Indbur now, he's lost Horleggor and taken his fourth defeat. We're his best hope to turn things around. I say we play both sides for all we can get."

"There's more and it's backed up by Ebling Mis…" Randu noted.

"That…" Mangin frowned. "One of our 'friends' in the Foundation…" Ovall sneered.

"He's a pet of Indbur's…" Mangin insisted.

"Hardly." Randu shook head. "But what's important is he's the leading expert on psychohistory and I was able to confer with him on Terminus. Listen…We may be cast for the same role as the former warlord of Kalgan. The Mule is a mutant." Grim tone.

When Mangin spoke, the evenness of his voice was unchanged, "How do you know? The word of Indbur's scientist?"

"The word of a man who's studied the situation and has the only person handy who's ever seen the Mule, the same jester/clown/musician my nephew lifted from Kalgan."

"Fine. What kind of a mutant? There are all kinds, you know."

Randu forced the rising impatience down, "All kinds of mutants, yes, Mangin. All kinds! But only one kind of Mule. What kind of a mutant would start as an unknown, assemble an army, establish, they say, a five-mile asteroid as original base, capture a planet, then a system, then a region—and then attack the Foundation, and defeat them at Horleggor. And all in two or three years!"

Ovall Gri shrugged, "So you think he could beat the Foundation?"

"I don't know. But a mutant…Mis is convinced and I for one believe him that a mutant like the Mule is not calculatable within the Seldon Plan."

"Nonsense." Mangin, firmly.

"Suppose he does win?" Randu eyed him, then Ovall.

"Sorry, I can't go that far. You don't beat the Foundation. Look, there's not a new fact we have to go on except for the statements of a . . . Well, of a Foundation scientist who might be on our side or not and an inexperienced boy. Suppose we shelve it for a while. With all the Mule's victories, we weren't seriously worried until now, and unless he goes a good deal further than he has, I see no reason to change that. Yes?" Ovall noted.

"You'd reject the treaty?" Randu eyed her.

"I wouldn't support it…" she offered faint smile. "But it's good to have in the pocket, should the Mule prove…Well, a mule." Smile.

"I agree." Mangin nodded. "There's no call for immediate action. Lets let Indbur hang himself a bit, then we'll see. I don't say the treaty's not a good thing to have but since when do we trust Indburs to keep their word?"

Randu frowned and despaired at the cobweb texture of his argument. He said to both, "Have we yet made any contact with the Mule?"

"No," both answered.

"It's true, though, that we've tried and been shot at for our pains, isn't it? It's true that there's not much purpose to our meeting unless we do reach him, isn't it? It's true that so far there's been more drinking than thinking, and more wooing than doing…I'm quoting from an editorial in today's Radole Tribune…And all because we can't reach the Mule. My friends, we have more than fifteen hundred ships waiting to be thrown into the fight at the proper moment to seize control of the Foundation. I say we should change that. I say, throw those thousand onto the board now, against the Mule."

"You mean for the Tyrant Indbur and the bloodsuckers of the Foundation?" demanded Mangin, with quiet venom.

Randu raised a weary hand, "Spare me the adjectives. Against the Mule, I say, and for I-don't-care-who."

Ovall Gri rose, "Randu, I'll have nothing to do with that. You present it to the full council tonight if you particularly hunger for political suicide." She left without another word and Mangin followed silently, leaving Randu to drag out a lonely hour of endless, insoluble consideration.

But barely an hour later it was Ovall Gri who pushed into his room, a dumbfounded Mangin behind her. Randu stared at her with an astonishment sufficiently open and strenuous to cause him to drop his pipe.

Ovall said baldly, harshly, "Mnemon has been bombarded from space by treacherous attack."

Randu's eyes narrowed, "The Foundation?"

"The Mule!" exploded Ovall. "The Mule!" Her words raced, "It was unprovoked. Deliberate. Most of our fleet had joined the international flotilla. The few left as Home Squadron were insufficient and were blown out of the sky. There have been no landings yet, and there may not be, for half the attackers are reported destroyed, and I have come to ask how Haven stands on the matter. Iss stand with us." She turned to Mangin who nodded.

"Haven, I am sure, will adhere to the spirit of the Charter of Federation. But, you see? He attacks us as well." Randu sighed.

"You were right, we were wrong, Randu. Twice the Mule's betrayed us." Mangin, shaking head. "And the Conference will end today, all delegates returning home as quickly as possible. I'm sure all will support a call for war against the Mule's Union."

"This Mule is a madman. Can he defeat the universe?" Ovall faltered and sat down to seize Randu's wrist, "Our few survivors have reported the Mule's. . .The enemy's possession of a new weapon. A nuclear-field depressor."

"A what?"

Ovall said, "Most of our ships were lost because their nuclear weapons failed them. It could not have happened by either accident or sabotage. It must have been a weapon of the Mule. It didn't work perfectly, I gather. The effect was intermittent, the ground teams were able to find ways to neutralize it. My dispatches are not detailed. But you see that such a tool would change the nature of war and, possibly, make our entire fleet obsolete."

Randu felt an old, old man. His face sagged hopelessly, "I am afraid a monster is grown that will devour all of us. Yet we must fight him."