The Disinherited (6 page)

"We were wrong."

He spoke a command, jarringly harsh for the language of Raehan, and the star-diagram vanished, to be replaced by something that brought the two Earthmen to their feet in horror.

"That," Varien stated somberly, "is a life-sized image of a Korvaasha. One of our exploration ships blundered into an outpost of their empire . . . an empire that has been slowly expanding for more centuries or millennia than we know, dedicated to imposing its own kind of unity on all the accessible galaxy. It is expansionism that has nothing to do with greed or glory, ambition or anger—rather, it has taken on a dour and leaden life of its own, and continues long after it has ceased to be profitable or even practical. Dismiss any thought of decadent overlords living in luxury on the labor of slaves. In fact, they've impoverished themselves to maintain a centralized state over a range whose frontiers take years of travel to reach even through the displacement points. Their empire is nothing more than a vast logistics base, a means that has become an end."

DiFalco, like Kurganov, couldn't tear his eyes from the startlingly lifelike hologram. It wasn't precisely ugly, for ugliness implies deviation from an accepted and recognizable standard. Rather, there was a fundamental and indefinable
wrongness
about the thick two-and-a-half-meter image.

"I assure you that you're seeing the species at its best—that is, at its most natural. This is a non-specialized leader type. The lower orders are bionically enhanced to make them efficient modular units of the runaway machine that is Korvaash civilization, and no resources are wasted on disguising the artificialities." Varien restored the star-diagram, to DiFalco's relief.

"When they captured our scout ship, they captured our complete body of astrogational data—the concept of computer security was, of course, foreign to us. It was a windfall for them: all those displacement points we had already surveyed, plus our highly advanced civilization to be welded into the machine. Their unvarying rule mandates planetary extermination as the penalty for attacking or successfully rebelling against the Empire, but not for merely encountering it; we're earmarked for enslavement instead." Varien actually smiled. "The odd thing is that they're fair-minded by their own lights. Unfortunately, by our standards their lights are few and dim."

Baleful red flares moved along one of the blue displacement-chains, branching off onto others as they made their cancerous way toward Tareil.

"Their technology evidently stopped developing as soon as they discovered the secret of displacement points, for it is less sophisticated than ours—though more so than its apparent crudity would suggest. And the defender of a displacement point enjoys the advantage of knowing where the attacker must emerge, and at what heading. These factors have enabled us to delay their advance, even though we had to improvise defense forces after five centuries of peace. But their resources are effectively limitless, and their orientation military to the last detail of their lives. The result is not in doubt. We cannot stop them."

For a long moment, they all sat in funereal silence. Then DiFalco finally decided what had been bothering him about the display.

"Hey," he spoke suddenly. "All these little lights—your white ones and the red Korvaasha ones—haven't come anywhere near that route you pointed out earlier, the one that leads from Tareil to Alpha Centauri. What's the matter with
those
displacement points?"

"The matter with them, Colonel, is that no one—Raehaniv or Korvaasha—knows about them. Except, of course, myself and my friends. Again, perhaps I'd better explain.

"You'll remember that I invented the technique of displacement point travel. I also pioneered other applications of artificial gravity, although I hadn't originated it. Our economy is what I believe you would call liberal-capitalist: society has no objection to vast personal wealth as long as it is acquired by the rules, particularly the rules against technological innovation—but this latter restriction, as I mentioned, had been breaking down even before I came on the scene. To be brief, I am what you would call a multibillionaire several times over. Private explorers in my employ discovered Tareil's fourth displacement point. I decided to investigate the systems beyond—the 'Lirauva Chain' is the term we use—for potential opportunities before making it public. I established a base on a habitable planet of Lirauva . . . excuse me, Alpha Centauri. There, we became aware of your civilization. It was in order to come here and study you that I invented a new interstellar drive, which evades the light-speed barrier without recourse to displacement points."

"So you
can
travel faster than light!" DiFalco declared triumphantly.

"No, no, no! What is involved is a series of very short instantaneous displacements, which can be repeated millions of times a second, allowing our most efficient ship to date to transit from Alpha Centauri to this system in just over six of your days. Most of our ships take five times that."

DiFalco looked mulish. "Well if that's not travelling faster than light, I'd like to know what is!"

Varien visibly controlled himself. "If I may continue," he said frostily, "I will come to the purpose of my presence here. You see, my discovery of the new drive coincided with the beginning of the war . . . no, let us be honest: the annexation. I have special sources of information which enabled me to see, more clearly than most of my compatriots, that we were doomed. So instead of turning my secrets over to the Raehaniv government, I faked my own death and came here." He paused portentiously. "I am here to offer your governments all our scientific knowledge, the entire panoply of our technology—to offer you, in fact, the stars—in exchange for your help!"

"Our help?" and "Our governments?" came, faintly and simultaneously, from Kurganov and DiFalco respectively.

"Yes! Remember, the Korvaasha know nothing of Tareil's fourth displacement point. Once they are settled into their occupation of Raehan, a liberating fleet could enter the system from an entirely unexpected direction—an unheard-of occurrence and a shock to their hidebound professionalism! And once we have captured some of
their
astrogational data, the new drive—which I have also kept secret, lest it fall into Korvaasha hands—can be used effectively to counterattack!" His enthusiasm suddenly waned. "Used effectively, that is, by
you
. The Raehaniv have been strangers to war for centuries too long; our new military barely qualifies as a joke. I can show you how to build weapons and equipment, and provide you with those components your technological base cannot yet manufacture, but your people have abilities mine have lost. It is for these that we are prepared to pay you very well indeed. Due to our ignorance of the nuances of your politics, I have approached you first, rather than announcing our presence directly and publicly to your home world." He looked proud of himself for this uncharacteristic subtlety; Aelanni's expression suggested that she might have had something to do with it.

The Russian and the American looked at each other, neither trusting himself to speak.

"Varien," Kurganov finally said, carefully, "we must have time to consider this. We and certain of our colleagues are already scheduled to meet on Phoenix Prime in connection with . . . political developments on Earth, our home world. I believe your proposal will be very relevant in this context."

"Of course, General."

The conference room was a buzz of talk, with ugly undercurrents, when Kurganov, DiFalco and the others entered. These were not military people and Phoenix Prime was not a warship, so there was no coming to attention. But the hubbub subsided as the officers took their seats at the head table and Sergeant Thompson came to parade rest beside the door.

DiFalco had Levinson in tow, and Kurganov had brought the pair who headed his intelligence section, an organization whose real function was more and more the accumulation of information and analysis on the increasingly unpredictable governments which were the Project's sponsors. Major Arkady Semyonovich Kuropatkin was short and stocky, with a thick black mustache and small, sharp eyes; Captain Irina Nikolayevna Tartakova towered over him and had straight, dark-brown hair hanging past a narrow, severe face. Levinson, who had a perverse fondness for pre-computer-enhancement twentieth century animated cartoons, had dubbed them "Boris and Natasha." They had been told what lay behind a certain nearby asteroid, and still wore stunned looks which did nothing for the half-dozen civilians' collective state of mind.

"Thank you for waiting, ladies and gentlemen," Kurganov opened. "Colonel DiFalco and I have been occupied with an unexpected development."

"Haven't we all, General," George Traylor of Trans-Orbit Developments growled. His voice, like a rock-crusher at full throttle, went with the rest of him—in earlier stages of his career, he had needed something more than his array of degrees in bossing construction crews. "The question is, what are we going to do about it?"

"Actually," Yakov Lazarovich Rosen of the St. Petersburg Institute of Planetology put in, "the first question is how seriously to take what we've heard. Well, Arkady Semyonovich?"

Kuropatkin scowled with concentration as he dragged his thoughts away from his new knowledge. "Ordinarily, I would discount it as mere political bluster. But now . . . ?" He shrugged. His English was heavily accented but fluent. "Economic reality means nothing to fanatics—we Russians know that. And American media has created a climate of opinion which can only be described as arrogant hysteria; rationality has become morally suspect." He gave an apologetic shrug which took in all his American listeners.

"Ha! So what the hell else is new?" Traylor snorted explosively. "Okay, then; we have to assume that these people aren't just blowing hot air out their asses but really mean what they say. And we all know that Russia won't—can't—continue the Project on its own if America pulls out." None of the Russians in the room looked happy, but none of them contradicted him. "If they did, I'd have to think about going to work for them myself," Traylor continued grimly. "But it's just not in the cards.

"But," he went on, sweeping the room with a glower, "I'd like to remind everybody that we're not entirely powerless. We represent some very wealthy organizations on Earth. We need to use our contacts in those organizations to get them off their numb butts! They have to start using their influence in ways that count politically, before it's too late!"

"But shouldn't we wait and see what happens?" Elizabeth Hadley of Consolidated Astronautics didn't quite wring her hands, but her face and voice held a note of anguish that had been there more and more of late. She spoke up to override the chorus of groans. "Yes, I know what we've heard sounds bad. And I know a lot of mistakes have been made Earthside. But maybe it will all blow over if we and others who feel as we do will just avoid being provocative . . . ."

"Jesus Christ, Liz!" Traylor's face was even ruddier than usual. "Do you really believe this shit, or do you just need to pretend to yourself that you do? Haven't you figured out
yet
what we're dealing with?"

Kurganov rapped the edge of the table with a stylus as Hadley started to open her mouth. "If we could have order, ladies and gentlemen, there is an additional factor we need to consider." He didn't raise his voice, but it held a note of command that Traylor and Hadley obeyed, even thought they were neither military nor Russian. But then, DiFalco reflected, the latter made less difference than would once have seemed possible; more and more, RAMP was these people's nation and Kurganov, like a constitutional monarch, was its embodiment.

"I must caution you," the general continued, "that this information is classified 'Most Secret.' In fact, I have assigned it a military security classification whose name you haven't even heard. But I have, on my own responsibility, decided to share it with you. You all have a need to know which, in my view, overrides the legalities involved. None of it must go beyond this room." That sobered them still further. "Colonel DiFalco, you may begin."

DiFalco stood up and fed a disc into the wall viewer, which he then linked with his perscomp. "The video you are going to see," he began, "was recorded during
Andrew Jackson
's transit from Mars . . . ."

DiFalco finally concluded, his last words falling like pebbles into a well of silence.

They had been remarkably quiet, with neither the clamoring questions he had expected nor the hysteria he had feared. Aside from an occasional hiss of indrawn breath or quickly stilled murmur, they had sat, stunned, as the fundamental assumptions of their lives were demolished.

"As you can see," Kurganov finally spoke with studied understatement, "this changes things. Varien wishes to make his offer to governments which, unknown to him, are about to turn their backs on space as part of a general retreat into the kind of statism we had all thought lay safely in the last century."

"And which could now become permanent if he does," Traylor continued for him. "Before the collapse of Communism, a lot of people thought the modern totalitarian state was invincible because of the gap that had opened up between the leading edge of weapons and thought-control technology and what was available to private individuals. That nightmare turned out to be premature—but what kind of stuff do Varien's people have? If it's anything like we've just seen and heard about . . ."

"But," Hadley interrupted him, "maybe the obvious possibilites here—the stars, for God's sake!—would turn our governments around, weaken the anti-space elements. Remember," she went on earnestly, "we're dealing with people who, however misguided some of their policies, are basically idealistic and well-meaning . . . ."

"Yeah," Levinson snapped, leaning forward and raising his voice over the general rumble of scorn, "like the well-meaning idealists who publicly castrated that old Hassidic rabbi in New York last month while the cops looked on? And the idealistic, well-meaning governor who made excuses for it? Something about an 'understandable reaction by the historically disempowered,' I think he said."