Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire (49 page)

"That's got nothing to do with it," Gwen said. "It's physiological. Once the brain is imprinted, all it wants is more pleasure."

"Partial agreement," Dzhaz said.

" 'Partial,' my tush!" Gwen said. "You never saw the chasers. Once people got zapped, that was
it
. And when word spread, other people sought out the zapper. Lots of people, all over the world. They just dropped out of society. That helped push us over the edge."

"Request, number of chasers, relative to total population?"

"Well . . ." What was the highest number I'd heard? A hundred thousand? "About one in fifty or sixty thousand."

"Request, this was significant fraction of population?" One of its hands made a small circle in the air with each sentence. Alien body language, I decided: a gesture of emphasis. "Request, chaser subgroup contained philosophers, scientists, artists, social leaders? Request, subgroup made large effort to describe effect of zapper to non-subgroup? Request, subgroup forced others to become chasers?"

"Okay, so most of them were bums," Gwen conceded. "And most of them didn't care enough to talk. But there was that minister, what's-his-name, and that Harvard professor. They got on the news a lot before they died. People listened to them."

"Self-evident, few listened," Dzhaz said. "Self-evident, speakers no longer sane. Request, explain why anyone listened, took statements seriously? Request, explain why chasers viewed as serious problem?"

"All right, I can't explain it." Gwen looked exasperated. "It's like asking me which straw broke the camel's back. The thing is that everyone saw it as a serious problem, and there was no way to stop it—"

"Request, describe attempts made to stop chaser subgroup's expansion."

"We didn't have the time to decide on anything," Gwen said. "Nothing like this had ever happened before. We didn't know what to do."

"Incorrect." Two of Dzhaz's hands pressed together. More body language, although I couldn't guess its meaning. "I speak as expert on field, able to make deductions concerning your past through study of other social disintegrations. Long before arrival of
Scented Vine
, you had problems with other addictions. Pattern identical to chaser issue. Limited size, most members non-important to social balance, attempts to curb ineffective, situation viewed with alarm. Addictive behavior seen only in individuals who feel society has failed their needs. This attitude, one of many signs of advanced social disintegration."

I stared out the window at the rain. I felt as bleak and cold as the dark sky. "You're saying that the chasers were a symptom."

"Correct," Dzhaz said. "Consider fact, you are not zapper-addicted. Additional fact, zapper effects non-physical. Addiction possible only in individuals who lack ability, or motive, to resist addiction. Single exposure ineffective on typical member of healthy society. Exposure not sought by such members, not truly enjoyed.

"Additional symptoms," it continued. "Before arrival of
Scented Vine
, great speculation made concerning potential dangers of contact, speculations unfounded but taken seriously, thus showing awareness of social instability. Long before arrival, high incidence of antisocial and asocial acts, crimes, matched by ineffective attempts to restrict. Superstitions, illogical social and political doctrines taken seriously. Warfare considered primary answer to nation-state disagreements—"

"Enough!" Gwen snapped. She looked rattled by Dzhaz's dry assertions. I felt the same way. Maybe the Alien had learned about Earth's problems from
Scented Vine
's crew, but I didn't believe that even as I thought it. No, Dzhaz was describing typical events in disintegrating cultures. Ours was merely the latest in a string of intriguing, informative disasters.

You're a Polynesian, and white sailors and missionaries have left your tiny world in shambles. Your one consolation is that it wasn't your fault, that the outsiders were too much for you to resist. Then you came face to face with the fact that your society fell because it lacked the inner strength to survive—

Hell's bells, that comparison wasn't even fair. Most primitive cultures had fought to survive, and shown more resilience than we had.

Gwen's thoughts must have paralleled mine. "Maybe you have a point," she said grimly. "Okay, maybe what happened was our fault. But we might have solved our problems if it hadn't been for the war, and
they started it
. Why should they get away with that?"

"I can answer that," I said. "They didn't start it. It was human suspicion, with the Soviets thinking the Aliens had teamed up with us. Maybe folks in Washington thought the Aliens were working with the Reds, too."

Gwen gave me a look of betrayal. "There was more than that. They shot down all the missiles, which was the only favor they ever did us. Then they turned the war into a joke! A 'tribal squabble. Welcome chance to test repairs to anti-meteor system.' It was all a video game to them! And it brought the government down."

"Request, explain how," Dzhaz said.

"They didn't have enough time to accomplish anything," I said. The Alien's words had blasted me out of a mental rut, and things that should have been obvious all along were becoming clear now. I can't say that I felt any gratitude to Dzhaz for that. "Anyway, I think the governments are to blame. They failed, Gwen, they pushed the button. I doubt anyone would've let them have a second chance to blow us to hell, with or without the Aliens."

"We'll never find out," she said bitterly.

Dzhaz shifted around on his feet. "Request, continue talk at later time." After a moment of silence it left.

Gwen went to the window and watched it disappear into the rain. "They've done it again," she said, clutching the sill. "They're attacking our weaknesses. They won't be satisfied until we're all barbarians."

"I don't think that's what's happening," I said, feeling strangely bemused. "Or if they
are
trying that, Dzhaz just admitted it won't work."

She jerked around, startled. "When did it say that?"

"When it was talking about the zapper. What did it say? A single zap is ineffective against a member of a
healthy
society? Such people don't really enjoy getting zapped—right? It feels nice, but it's degrading, and you have better pleasures. Family. Work that means something. Accomplishment, hope, a future. When you have that you don't slip off into pipe dreams."

"What about the Colonel?" Gwen said. She still suspected an Alien trick, but she wanted to be convinced, to hear that there wouldn't be a second Collapse.

"The Colonel has his problems," I acknowledged. "But think about what he's like. A second Patton, the warrior incarnate. 'Duty, honor, country.' When he lost his first country, he set out to make a second one."

"The Republic didn't exist when he was zapped."

I nodded. "True, but his military unit did. He gave himself the responsibility of holding it together. He has a will that the zapper couldn't bend . . ."

Things clicked. Weyler had orchestrated the attack to get Washington zapped, assuming that it would break him. The spy at my house must have brought Weyler the impossible news that the zapper had failed with me and could not be trusted to work on the Colonel. If Weyler was going to remove Washington, it would have to be through other means.

And his warriors had a talent for sneaking around unseen—

I grabbed my coat and ran out the door. The path to the north slope and bivouac seemed all uphill in the rain, a waking nightmare. I was out of breath and my heart was pounding when I stumbled up to a sentry post. A soldier in a poncho kept me from falling over. I gasped out something about the Colonel and protecting him, and both sentries ran to his tent. I caught my breath and went after them.

The Colonel was in his tent, sitting up on his cot with the blanket over his legs. He was holding a revolver on a savage, although the look on Washington's face was deadly enough. "I cannot believe," he said in disgust, "that Weyler would try something so
obvious
."

I nodded absently at his soldierly esthetics. The savage glared at me. The rain had washed off his dirt and war-paint, revealing white skin and matted blond hair. It gave him an odd resemblance to a long-ago California surf bum. "Where's Weyler?" I demanded, as the sentries tied his hands behind him.

The savage—hell, the young man—spat at me. I noticed he had bad teeth. "Bring him with me," I told the sentries. I knew what I had to do now, risky as it was.

The rain had slacked off to a drizzle; the storm was passing. Weyler's camp had turned into mud, and the savages squatted under their lean-tos. "Weyler!" I shouted. "Get out here! Face me, you gutless wonder! Crawl out here, back-stabber!"

He came out into the open. He had to, with me calling him a coward in front of his advisors and warriors. He stood about ten feet from me. "What do you want, Renaissance Man?" he asked in contempt.

"You sent your boy to murder the Colonel," I said, as the sentries dragged the captive into the camp. "To kill him while he slept."

"What if I did?" he asked. Some of his men smiled at his cleverness. It was merely murder, an acceptable gambit to them—just as we had been ready to go to war to get what we want.

"You have no guts," I said. Using short, simple words is hell for a politician, but I wanted his men to understand me. They spoke English, yes, but only in a crude, limited way. I had to make certain that I left him no escape. "You are lower than a snake's belly. You are the dirt under the pile of crap. You send others to fight for you."

He spat. "So I fight the way you fight. Guns, cannons, airplanes. Your people hide behind them and kill at a coward's distance."

"We kill that way because you run from us," I taunted him. "You can only face unarmed villagers, and you are the biggest coward of all, hiding behind your warriors. You would not even fight
me
."

Weyler looked me over, up and down, and smiled. I was an old man, like him. I'd been zapped and I'd run a half-mile, and unlike him, I wasn't in prime condition. I was no hardy, hearty barbarian. "And you would not fight me with spear and knife."

"I would," I said.

The Colonel stepped up to my side. "Mr. Secretary, what in
hell
are you doing?"

"I don't have the time to explain." Across the muddy grounds, one of his warriors had produced a spear and knife. I sent one of the sentries to fetch it. "Think of it as the soldier's dream, Colonel. The leaders are going to slug it out."

"Single combat?"

"Just like David and Goliath." There'd been a time when armies sent out champions to do combat, allowing their gods to decide the outcome of battles through them. A good custom, I thought, peeling off my jacket. We couldn't have peace with Weyler, and we couldn't accomplish anything through full-scale war. This would give us a chance.

I looked at Weyler as he prepared for battle. He looked confident of victory, but he didn't know we were fighting according to my rules. To win, he had to kill me, but all I had to do was stay alive and wait for one opportunity.

Washington looked resigned, and far from optimistic. "Mr. Secretary, when fighting, keep your head down, to protect your throat. Face him sideways, to keep him from kicking you in the crotch. Keep your feet apart, so he won't knock you off balance easily."

"Okay, thanks." He'd taught me to fight years ago, when I'd joined him as a trooper, but it didn't hurt to hear that again. I removed my shoes and socks, and the sentry brought my weapons. The knife was poorly balanced, but I wasn't going to use it. The spear had a stone point, secured by sinew, and its shaft was good and solid. Fiber lacings served as grips. I tested them and decided they wouldn't slip or break.

"Weyler," I called. I had no right to make the Republic's foreign policy decisions, but I had to give Weyler a reason to fight without making him suspicious. "If you win, we will not attack your tribe, there will be no war. If I win, you will release, unharmed, all the captives taken on your last raid. Agreed?"

"Agreed," he said at once. Then he turned and faced Signal Hill, where the Alien force-field shimmered in the wet air. Several of the Aliens stood just inside the shield, watching us.

"Dark Gods!" Weyler shouted, raising spear and knife above his head. "
Ottar-idle, hai!
Give me victory!" Prayers said, he faced me and stepped forward, smiling.

I stepped forward. The long grass and mud squished under my toes. The mud was cold, but I'd never have kept my balance in my shoes. When I was within two or three paces of Weyler, I tossed the knife aside. I needed both hands for my spear.

He laughed as the knife splashed in the mud. "You won't win."

"Prove it." I circled slowly, waiting for him to make the first move. My feet grew numb in the cold mud, but as I moved around I tested the ground, noting which parts were slipperier than others, which might give decent footing. After a long moment I settled into a fairly solid patch of ground.

I heard grumblings from the barbarians. They wanted the warrior-king to prove himself in battle, and they disliked our dancing. Good. Every bit of pressure on my enemy helped.

He lunged at me with the spear. I parried it with mine, although the blow nearly knocked the spear from my hands. Gaunt as he looked, Weyler was stronger than me. Much stronger.

"Is that why you threw away your knife?" he asked. "To buy yourself more time?" He swung at me with the spear, twice, toying with me. He danced back, put his knife in his loincloth belt, lunged forward with his spear in both hands. He wasn't much faster than me, I saw. He was an old man, too.

I turned, and for a moment we were face to face, our spear shafts jammed together. "I'll never free any slaves," he whispered. "Even if you win."

"I know," I gasped. He kicked at my ankle and I tripped. I twisted away as he jabbed at me with the spear point. On my knees, I held the shaft above me as he brought his spear down on my head. The poles hit with a crack, jolting my shoulders. Weyler grabbed his spear with both hands and leaned forward, forcing me to support his weight.