The End of All Things (32 page)

We’re protecting Colonial Union property,
I sent back.

What are they going to do, lay on it?

I seem to remember you recently complaining about people thinking too much about our missions,
I said.

This seems like something the local police can handle.

Indeed,
I said, and pointed at a woman lying about two meters from me, in a police uniform.
There’s the chief of police. You can talk to her about it
.

Even from thirty yards away I could hear Powell’s snort of derision.

The problem with Erie was not that the population had tried to declare its independence, or tried to burn down the Colonial Union local headquarters, or had invited less than entirely altruistic alien species to attack Colonial ships and soldiers. The problem was that Erie had gone on strike.

Not entirely on strike; the planet was still feeding itself and clothing itself and taking care of its own internal needs. But it had decided that, for now, it was no longer in the export business. This presented a problem for the Colonial Union because the Colonial Union bought a substantial amount from Erie, and Erie, as one of the earliest colonies, had one of the most developed export economies in the whole Colonial Union.

The Colonial Union trade representative for Erie had asked what the problem was. No problem, Erie (or more accurately its governor for trade) said. We’ve decided to get out of the export business.

The Colonial Union trade representative pointed out that doing so would trash Erie’s economy. Erie’s governor for trade noted that its economists said that the change would be difficult but weatherable as long as everyone made certain sacrifices.

The Colonial Union trade representative offered to raise the amount it offered for goods. Erie’s governor for trade politely declined.

The Colonial Union trade representative hinted that not doing business with them was tantamount to treason. Erie’s governor for trade asked what particular Colonial Union statute covered enforced, involuntary trade.

The Colonial Union trade representative then made a crack about the entire planet lying down on the job.

This is stupid,
Powell said.

As stupid as the Colonial Union trade representative?
I asked.

Close,
Powell replied
. We’re wasting our time here, boss. We’re not stopping anything, or saving anyone, or doing any good. We’re just walking around a bunch of people lying down, waving our Empees around like assholes.

They could spring up and attack us all.

Lieutenant, I’ve got a guy two meters from me who is fucking snoring.

I smiled at this.
What do you suggest we do, Ilse?
I asked.

I have no idea. I’m open to suggestion.

Okay, try this one on,
I said, dropped my Empee, and walked out into the crowd.

What are you doing?
Powell asked.

Leaving,
I said. I began to navigate around the prone bodies so I wouldn’t step on any.

Where to?

I have no idea.

I don’t think we’re allowed to do that, boss. I think the technical term for what you’re doing is “desertion.”

They can shoot me if they want.

They might!

Ilse,
I said, stopped, and looked back.
I’ve been doing this for seven years. You know as well as I do that they’re not going to let me stop. They’ve stopped rotating us out because there are no more of us coming in. But I can’t do this anymore. I’m done.
I turned and started walking again.

They will definitely shoot you.

They might,
I agreed, echoing her earlier words. I made my way through the plaza and down to one of the side streets. I turned and looked back at Powell.

It’s not like they won’t know where you are,
she said to me.
You have a computer in your brain. It tracks your every movement. Hell, I’m pretty sure it can track your every thought.

I know.

They’ll come get you.

They probably will.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I won’t.

What will you do?

I used to be a pretty good musician,
I said.
I think I’d like to do that again. For a while, anyway
.

You’re nuts, Lieutenant. I want it out there on the record that I said that.

Duly noted. Want to join me?

Hell, no,
Powell said.
We can’t all be deserters. And anyway there’s a lieutenant position opening up. I think I’m in line for a promotion.

I grinned.
Good-bye
,
Ilse,
I said.

Good-bye
,
Heather,
she said, and then she waved.

I turned the corner and a building hid her from my view.

I walked down the street, found another street that looked interesting, and started walking down it into the first day of another life.

I think it was a Saturday.

TO STAND OR FALL

To the Committee and attendees of Swancon 40, in Perth, Australia, where this novella—and book—was completed. Hey, didn’t I say I would do this?

PART ONE

There’s a saying: “May you live in interesting times.”

To begin, it’s a curse. “Interesting” in this case uniformly means “Oh god, death is raining down upon us and we shall all perish wailing and possibly on fire.” If someone wanted to say something nice to you, they wouldn’t tell you to live in “interesting” times. They would say something like, “I wish you eternal happiness” or “May you have peace” or “Live long and prosper” and so on. They wouldn’t say “Live in interesting times.” If someone is telling you to live in interesting times, they are basically telling you they want you to die horribly, and to suffer terribly before you do.

Seriously, they are not your friend. This is a tip I am giving you for free.

Second, the curse is almost always ascribed to the Chinese, which is a flat-out lie. As far as anyone can tell it appeared in English first but was ascribed to the Chinese, probably due to a combination of casual racism and because someone wanted to be a shithole of a human being but didn’t want it to be marked down against them personally. A sort of “Hey,
I’m
not saying this, those terrible Chinese are saying it, I’m just telling you what
they
said” maneuver.

So not only are they not your friend, they may be also a bigot and passive-aggressive.

That said, the Chinese do have a saying from which it is alleged that the bigoted passive-aggressive curse may have been derived: “
,” which, roughly translated, means “It’s better to be a dog in peace, than a man in war.” Which is a maxim which is neither bigoted nor passive-aggressive, and about which I find a lot to agree with.

The point is this: My name is Lieutenant Harry Wilson. I’ve been a man in war for a very long time now. I think it would be preferable to be a dog in peace. I’ve been working toward that for a while.

My problem is, I live in interesting times.

*   *   *

My most recent interesting time began when the
Chandler,
the ship on which I was stationed, skipped into the Khartoum system and promptly blew up the first two other ships it saw.

They had it coming. The two ships were attacking the
Tubingen,
a Colonial Defense Forces ship which had been called into the system to quell a rebellion against the Colonial Union, instigated by Khartoum’s prime minister, who really should have known better. But apparently he didn’t, and in came the
Tubingen,
which sent a platoon of soldiers to the planet to escort the prime minister off the planet. Which is when these other two ships skipped in and started using the
Tubingen
for target practice. I imagine they expected that they would be able to finish the job, unmolested. They were not prepared to have the
Chandler
come at them out of the sun.

In reality we had done no such thing, of course. We had just skipped into the space above Khartoum slightly closer in toward the planet’s star than those two ships, and the
Tubingen,
which they were busy attacking. And the fact that we were, from their perspective, hidden in the disk of Khartoum’s star did not give the
Chandler
any special advantage. The ships’ systems would have detected us no later. What gave us an advantage was that they were not expecting us at all. When we showed up, they were giving all their attention to destroying the
Tubingen,
firing missiles at close range to shatter the ship at its weak points, to end the lives of everyone on the ship and throw the entire Colonial Union into disarray.

But coming out of the sun was a nice poetic touch.

We had launched our own missiles before our particle beams touched the ships’ missiles, detonating all of them before they could smash into the
Tubingen
. Our missiles jammed themselves into the hulls of the enemy ships, targeted to disrupt power systems and weapons. We didn’t worry about the crews. We knew there wouldn’t be any, except for a single pilot.

From our point of view the battle was over before it began. The enemy ships, only lightly armored, went up like fireworks. We hailed the
Tubingen
by standard coms and by BrainPal networking, to assess the damage.

It was significant. The ship was a loss; it would barely have time to evacuate its crew before its life-support systems collapsed. We started making room on the
Chandler
and sent skip drones back to Phoenix Station for rescue ships and crews.

Reports trickled in from the surface of Khartoum. The platoon from the
Tubingen,
tasked to bring the planet’s prime minister into custody, had been shot out of the sky from ground-based defenses. The soldiers who had leapt from the shuttle to escape its destruction had been picked off by the same defense.

Only two soldiers had escaped unharmed, but between them they destroyed the defense installation, staffed with Rraey soldiers aligned with Equilibrium, the group who had wreaked so much havoc on the Colonial Union and the Conclave. They captured two of the Rraey from the ground installation, including the commander. Then they finished their original mission and brought back the prime minister of Khartoum.

Someone was going to have to interrogate them all.

For the two Rraey, that someone was me.

*   *   *

I entered the room where the Rraey prisoner of war had been waiting for me. The Rraey had not been shackled but a shock collar had been placed around his neck. Any motion quicker than a very casual and deliberate movement would generate a jolt, and the faster the movement, the more powerful the jolt.

The Rraey did not move very much.

He sat in a chair very badly designed for his physiology, but no better chair was to be had. It was positioned at a table. On the opposite side of the table stood another chair. I sat in the chair, reached out, and placed a speaker on the table.

“Commander Tvann,” I said, and my words were translated by the speaker. “My name is Harry Wilson. I am a lieutenant in the Colonial Defense Forces. I would like to speak to you, if you don’t mind. You may answer in your own language. My BrainPal will translate for me.”

“You humans,” Tvann said, after a moment. “The way you speak. As if you are asking for permission when you are making demands.”

“You could choose not to speak to me,” I said.

Tvann motioned to the collar around his neck. “I do not think that would go very well for me.”

“A fair point.” I pushed up from the chair and walked over to Tvann, who did not flinch. “If you will permit me, I will remove your collar.”

“Why would you do that?”

“As a token of good faith,” I said. “And also, so if you choose not to speak to me, you will not have to fear punishment.”

Tvann craned his neck to allow me access to his collar. I removed it, unlocking it via a command from his BrainPal. I set the collar on the table and then returned to my seat.

“Now, where were we?” I said. “That’s right. I wanted to speak to you.”

“Lieutenant…” Tvann trailed off.

“Wilson.”

“Thank you. Lieutenant, I—may I be candid with you?”

“I hope you will.”

“While I do not wish to suggest I do not appreciate you removing this instrument of torture from my neck, allow me to note that the act is hollow. And not only hollow, it is, in fact, disingenuous.”

“How so, Commander?”

Tvann motioned around him. “You have removed the shock collar. But I am still here, in your ship. I have no doubt that on the other side of this door is another CDF solider, like yourself, with a weapon or another implement of torture. There is no escape for me and no assurance that aside from this immediate moment, I will not be punished or even killed for not speaking with you.”