Pshing’s face appeared on the communicator screen. “Exalted Fleetlord, excuse the interruption,” Atvar’s adjutant said, “but, per your orders, I report the successful destruction by atomic weapon of the Deutsch city of Hamburg. All aircraft involved in the mission have returned safely to base.”
“Thank you,” the fleetlord said, and Pshing’s image vanished. Atvar turned his eye turrets back toward Kirel. “The war has grown unpredictable.” No stronger curse could have come from a male of the Race. “Deutschland and the United States both continue to produce atomic weapons; the SSSR may yet succeed in building one of its own. All the Tosevite powers now use poisonous gases of various sorts against us. The Deutsche have joined them to missiles. How long will it be before they or some other empires or not-empires develop missiles whose guidance systems are more accurate than the crude ones they use, or until they make missiles large enough, or nuclear weapons small enough, to use together?”
“Those are major technological steps, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel said. “They would require many decades, perhaps many centuries-”
“-For us,” Atvar broke in. “For the Big Uglies, who can say? Who can say, Shiplord? The more contact we have with the Tosevites, the more demoralized our males become. Where will it end? What is happening to us here?”
“Exalted Fleetlord, I think-”
Before Kirel could say what he thought, he was interrupted again, not by Atvar this time but by Pshing, whose features came back on the communicator screen. Like Kirel, he began, “Exalted Fleetlord-”
Atvar knew a sinking feeling. This was not an ordered call, which meant it had to be an emergency. “Speak,” he said, dreading what his adjutant would say.
“Exalted Fleetlord-” Now Pshing hesitated on his own, searching, no doubt, for the least appalling way to frame whatever the latest disaster was. At last, he went on, “Exalted Fleetlord, we have reports a landcruiser and infantry base in the region of the SSSR known as Siberia no longer, ah, respond to orders.”
“It has fallen to the Big Uglies?” Atvar asked.
Pshing hesitated again, longer this time. “Exalted Fleetlord, it would appear not. The fragmentary communications we had before it stopped responding or transmitting suggest internal disorders instead. The base commandant, Hisslef, is believed slain.” The adjutant hissed in anguished dismay. “Exalted Fleetlord, it appears to be a-a mutiny.” He hissed again once the awful word was out.
“A mutiny?” Atvar stared at the communicator screen. He was too shocked even to be angry. That might come later, but not yet. Males of the Race-loyal, obedient, cohesive-rising up against their commanders?Killing their commanders, if the report Pshing had was correct? It could never have happened, not on any world under the Emperor’s dominion. On Tosev 3-As he had to Kirel, Atvar cried, “What is happening to us here?” His voice came out a frightened moan.
Harry Turtledove was born in Los Angeles in 1949. He has taught ancient and medieval history at UCLA, Cal State Fullerton, and Cal State L.A., and has published a translation of a ninth-century Byzantine chronicle, as well as several scholarly articles. He is also an award-winning full-time writer of science fiction and fantasy. His alternate history works have included several short stories and novels, includingThe Guns of the South,How Few Remain (winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel), theGreat War epics: American Front andWalk in Hell, and theColonization books: Second Contact andDown to Earth. His new novel isAmerican Empire: The Center Cannot Hold. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.