He bit his lower lip and tapped at the table with a stylus. “Problem is Trans-Lunar space. There’s may be half a million ferals still left in the Belt, an’ they have that starship and the facility that built it. We have our own antimatter production, just comin’ on stream near Mercury, but the transport an’ guardin’ problems . . . And they are standin’ above us on the gravity well.” A long pause. “All factors considered, yes. 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, although I doubt it; rate of innovation was slowin’ down even befo’ this, and they won’t have nearly as much to spare fo’ research now.”
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 that starship actually leaves.”
“Oh. Much better. Same prediction here on Earth; then . . . oh, say forty 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. The, ah, New America to be allowed to leave; 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—letting them establish a colony, on the nearest star; an insane risk!”
“Nearest? With a forty-year transit time?” Eric said mordantly. Heads nodded; most of those here had a reasonably good idea of the sheer immensity 4.5 light-years represented. The whole solar system was a flyspeck by comparison. “Strategos Snappdove?” The Militant flushed, knowing this was collusion and unable to use the fact.
“Ah. Well, we estimate that they could take no more than a hundred thousand, assuming they use our Low-Met process. No matter how well equipped, this is a very 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 best-case fo’ them, a century after arrival befo’ they are established firmly enough to think of anything beyond bare survival. Thereto’ we can expect no hostile action for a century an’ a half, at an absolute minimum. Mo’ probably a century beyond that.
“Besides which,” he went on, “our studies indicate conclusively that attackin’ a defended planetary system is virtually impossible. Interstellar war at sublight speeds is an absurdity; so is interstellar government. In two centuries, we’ll be fully recovered, mo’ powerful than a strugglin’ colony could possibly be, and I’ll stake my life and soul we wouldn’t have the slightest chance of successfully attackin’ them. If they did attack us, we could swat them like mosquitoes. Far mo’ rational to put a fraction of that effort into colonizin’ stars further out; which, incidentally, we’d be doin’ as well.”
Eric waited until the expressions showed the argument had been assimilated, the balance of doubt weighed, and acceptance.
“And finally,” he said, “a meta-political point. 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 within reach. Leastways, none with a technological civilization. The universe isn’t enough of a challenge, it isn’t conscious; without some rival, even if it’s a rival we can’t fight directly, what is the Race to measure itself against?”
He cleared his throat. That was a good concluding note; he had shown them just how grim the situation really was, and a way to simplify it considerably. And besides the practical reasons, a philosophical one squarely in line with tradition.
“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
JANUARY 14, 1999
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 over 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?”