There was also a pain in his head, an ache behind his eyes, as if his nervous system recalled the strain it had just been under, and was rebelling against attempting such strains again.
By mining the Diamond Star we proved our race was smart enough to be useful slaves to the hegemony of machine intelligences swarming through the Hyades Cluster one hundred fifty-one lightyears from Earth. The relative difference in racial intelligence means that energy expenditures to launch the Earth-Conquering Armada will be minimized: They cannot afford to accelerate their World Armada past point zero one eight percent of the speed of light, some five million meters per second. The calculations shown here describe the energy expense to conquer us will be below detectable threshold values: In military terms, the equation puts their war coffer amounts at near zero. This is due to the steepness of the negative power imbalance, which stands as near-vertical. Because of our relative worthlessness as a slave-race, but because of the relative cheapness of transport costs, they intend to use the human race as a form of …
Click. Del Azarchel had shut off the table. It was like a spell being broken. The look in the eyes staring up at him from the glass was gone. The strange notes of music, the eerie song, went silent.
Intend to use the human race as a form of … what? But it was gone.
Menelaus rubbed his temples. His mouth was dry. “The Earth is in someone else’s backyard. Our civilization, everything we have, our smarts, our accomplishments, the natural resources of the solar system, our future, our golden future … they own it.”
“Who?”
“Some sort of union of powers, a hegemony, seated in the Hyades Cluster, dominated by a single influence: a Domination. An agency of some sort, an Armada, was launched from the star Epsilon Tauri.”
“Eh?”
Montrose was glassy-eyed. “Ain,” he muttered. “Oculus Borealis. Coronis. One of the Hyades sisters.”
“Montrose! What are you—?”
Montrose straightened up and spoke in a clear, level voice. “When the Hermetic mined the Diamond Star, disturbances in the photosphere, output changes, could not be hidden. Call it eighty years and change for the light-signal to reach the star 20 Arietis, which is apparently one of their decision nexi, and then another fifteen lightyears to reach the star Epsilon Tauri. Pox! I reckon they have already launched. There must have been some visible change to the output of Epsilon Tauri, because Earth is in the beam-path of their launching laser … And it is not a who. It’s a what. Biological life is not really suited for star travel. Too short-lived…”
Montrose drew a deep breath.
“Blackie, I think we’re in trouble.”
A note of music came from Del Azarchel. It was a mournful, solemn sound, like the wind from an oboe. It came from his amulet of red metal.
Blackie scowled at his wrist. “The others were listening to us.”
“Others? Others from what?”
“Come! We are summoned.”
“Summoned where?”
But he was talking to a retreating chairback. There was a click and a hiss as the door unlocked and opened.
9
Extraterrestrial Conflict Resolution
1. Shipsuit
Menelaus trotted after, and caught up to the nonwheelchair as it slid down the corridor. “But we’re right in the middle of something important here!”
“They must be included. We dare not defy their call.”
“You told me you were the Master of the World!”
“And I also told you the only title of mine that means anything is Senior of the Landing Party.”
“Come again?”
“The Hermetic is still aloft. Come, you have a lawyerly mind: What was the official end-date of the expedition?”
“Uh—When the final report to the Joint Commission gets filed.”
“It is not our fault the Commission disbanded while we were away, is it? You are also summoned. You are now awake and fit for duty. No longer on the sick roster.”
There came a clatter of many booted feet. Down the corridor toward them came Del Azarchel’s coterie of ministers and secretaries, footmen and officers, and a squad of Conquistadores in morion helmets, breastplates, and pikes.
The group also had a wardrobe master and a valet. Montrose stared goggle-eyed when the valet started stripping the tunic and trousers off of Del Azarchel, whose throne did not stop moving during this whole, awkward operation. The back of the throne folded down, changing it into something like a gurney, and assistants in blue uniforms with deft motions pushed the naked body of the Master of the World this way and that, in order to wriggle him into his clothing. It was done as nonchalantly as a nurse diapering a baby. The other courtiers and soldiers marched alongside, looking at nothing, noticing nothing.
One or two of the valets attempted a similar deal on him, but Montrose shrugged them away, grabbed the clothing out of their hands, and ran around a convenient corner with the bundle.
He unfolded it. The garment was a spacer’s uniform of ultra-lightweight black silk, with fittings at the wrists and neckline to accept gauntlets and helmet. The fabric looked almost like an organism, because countless tiny tubules for air and coolant ran through the cloth, like the branching veins in a leaf.
But the garb was clearly ceremoniaclass="underline" instead of painting his feet with insulator, for example, he was given a pair of black toe-socks decorated with clips of silver. A scarlet and sable oxygen hood hung down his back, obviously meant for show, not use, and a square of bright-cloth, mirror with its patterns of solar cells, was hung from one epaulette. It was not plugged into a battery, nor was there a parasol wand, so it was also for show, not to protect him from radiant solar heat in a vacuum.
Oddly, the gauntlets were not real gauntlets, there was no lining of pressure-reactive control materiaclass="underline" They were just made of soft fabric, not vacuum-proof, and just tucked into his belt at a jaunty angle. Even more oddly, the left sleeve of the uniform was shorter than the right, leaving one forearm bare. Even if he had donned the left gauntlet, it would not have mated with the wrist fittings.
A valet came looking for him. Montrose was willing to let the other man dress him, for the simple reason that one could not fasten up a shipsuit properly by oneself, and Montrose did not know how closely this simpler copy mimicked the original.
He jogged back, finding Del Azarchel waiting in a garden-space beneath a blue dome, and a fountain and pool of water splashed on the tiled floor not far away. The throng had grown. Del Azarchel was now surrounded by a crowd of retainers and courtiers larger than what had been there before. He was telling them about the coming Armada from Epsilon Tauri. Montrose heard a tense question or two, and then a breath of relief swept through the garden-chamber. The courtiers were chuckling. “Eight thousand years,” said one, a handsome youth in a metallic wig. “It is further in our future than all recorded history rests in our past—”
Del Azarchel raised his hand, and the courtiers, all of them, fell silent as if a switch had been thrown. Del Azarchel was now dressed in a black shipsuit like Montrose wore, except that there were silver fittings at his throat and shoulders.
Montrose came forward, caught sight of himself in the glass on the wall behind Del Azarchel, and smiled. “We’re not going to shave our heads? The suit officer won’t let us board if we don’t have clean skull fits.”
Del Azarchel smiled with the left half of his mouth, raising one eyebrow. “You think this is not real? It is very real, I assure you. Hylics are not allowed to wear these fabrics. Only us.”