Upsetting the Balance (82 page)

That brought another, louder, chorus of “Truth!” from the males who’d supported Ussmak in the first place, and from a few who hadn’t. A lot of his backers, he saw, were males who had their tongues deep in the ginger vial. Not all, though, not by any means. That made him feel good. Even full of ginger, he knew males full of ginger were not similarly full of good sense.

“We want to go Home!” he yelled, as loud as he could, and then again: “We want to go
Home!”
More and more males added their voices to the cry. It filled the communal chamber and echoed through the base. Having the other males follow his lead lifted Ussmak’s spirits almost the way ginger did. This had to be what the fleetlord knew, or even the Emperor himself.

A few males who refused to join the outpouring of anger fled the chamber. But more came rushing in, first to see what the commotion was about and then, more often than not, to join it. “We want to go
Home!”
Ussmak’s hearing diaphragms throbbed with the rhythmically repeated roar.

“Attention all males! Attention all males!” A countering shout rose from the intercom speaker on the wall: “End this unseemly display at once and return to your duties. I, Hisslef, base commandant, so order. Return to your duties at once, I say!”

One or two males meekly squeaked, “It shall be done,” and skittered away.

With ginger still in him, though, Ussmak wasn’t so inclined to pay the strict attention to subordination he would have when he first came to Tosev 3. “No!” he shouted. A lot of males in the command chamber were tasting ginger. “No!” they yelled with him. Somebody added, “Fancy body paint’s not enough!” In a moment, that became a new war cry.

Had Hisslef let the males shout and carry on till ginger exhilaration gave way to after-ginger gloom, the uprising probably would have died a natural death. Instead, he chose to stalk into the communal chamber and shout, “Who has perpetrated this outrageous conduct?”

“I have, sup—” Ussmak said. He’d automatically started to add Hisslef’s honorific, but choked it down. What honor did Hisslef deserve? Fancy body paint
wasn’t
enough.

“You will place yourself under arrest,” Hisslef said coldly. “You are a disgrace to the Race, and shall be punished as you deserve.”

“No,” Ussmak answered. Half the males in the communal chamber stared at him in astonishment. Disobeying an intercom speaker was one thing, disobeying a direct personal order quite another. But the repeated loss of cherished crewmales—and the ginger in him—took Ussmak to a place far outside the Race’s normal patterns. And when he went to that place, he was able to take the rest of the males in the chamber with him. After their moment of surprise, they screamed abuse at Hisslef.

The base commandant spread his hands so all the claws showed, a gesture showing he was ready to fight “You will come with me
now,
you egg-addled wretch,” he ground out, and took two steps toward Ussmak.

Ussmak raised the personal weapon he’d been holding ever since he frightened the mechanics with it. A ginger-quickened impulse made him squeeze the trigger. The burst crumpled Hisslef and flung him backwards like a sheet of wastepaper. Ussmak was amazed at how little he cared. With Nejas’ blood, and Skoob’s, on his coat, what did having Hisslef’s on his hands matter?

‘We’ll clean them all out!” he shouted. “The base is ours!”

Again, he’d stunned the males in the communal chamber. Again, he was able to take them with him to a place where they might never have gone otherwise. “Clean them out!” they bayed. “The base is ours!”

Atvar wished with all his spirit that the Race had never come to Tosev 3. He wished that, if the Race had to have come to Tosev 3, it would have done so under a different fleetlord. “By the Emperor, maybe Straha
should
have overthrown me after the first atomic bomb the Big Uglies touched off,” he said savagely. “I’d like to see how he’d enjoy coping with these latest ones.”

“The loss of Rome was a heavy one for us in many ways, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel agreed. “Not only were military and administrative casualties heavy, the bomb also destroyed the Big Ugly who called himself 12th Pope Pius, and that male had been a leading factor in accommodating the large number of Tosevites of his theological persuasion to our rule. His traditional authority reached back almost two thousand Tosevite years, which for this planet gives most antique status.”

“Unlike a good many others on this world, he was able to recognize the advantages of cooperating with authority,” Atvar answered, “and he would not have lost all his power after the conquest, as the emperors and not-emperors here so bitterly fear. As you say, Shiplord, an unfortunate Big Ugly to lose.”

“Targeting the Deutsch city called Hamburg for retaliation seems fitting, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel said, “it being a center for water-borne commerce.”

“Yes, we shall destroy it. In fact”—Atvar flicked one eye toward a chronometer—“it is already destroyed. Thus we avenge ourselves for Rome; thus we visit horror on Deutschland in exchange for the horror the Deutsche visited upon us.” He sighed wearily. “And for what? The Deutsche continue to resist us. This latest bomb had nuclear materials entirely of their own making. And much of the radiation from our nuclear explosions on Deutsch territory—and from that of their first weapon, the one east of Breslau—is blown east and contaminates our holdings and our males in Poland.”

“It contaminates the Deutsche first and worse, Exalted Fleetlord,” Kirel said.

Atvar hissed out a sad sigh. “Truth, and I thank you for trying to cheer me with it. But another truth is that the Deutsche, whether out of sheer ignorance or simply their own savagery—given some of their practices before we arrived, the latter strikes me as not at all unlikely—well, as I say, whatever the reason may be, the Deutsche do not seem to care what happens to their own males and females.”

“What happens in the generations to come will make them care,” Kirel said.

“Truth again,” Atvar answered, “and if you put this truth to the Deutsch not-emperor—the
Führer,
he calls himself—I know precisely what he would say: ‘So what?’ If something suffices for the moment, the Big Uglies care nothing for long-term consequences.”

“This irony bites us again and again,” Kirel said. “We must have a care for the future management of Tosev 3 in order to preserve it more or less intact for the settlers aboard the colonization fleet, while those native to the planet would cheerfully fling it into the cremator for the sake of a temporary advantage.”

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, including
The Guns of the South
,
How Few Remain
(winner of the Sidewise Award for Best Novel), the
Great War
epics:
American Front
and
Walk in Hell
, and the
Colonization
books:
Second Contact
and
Down to Earth
. His new novel is
American Empire: The Center Cannot Hold
. He is married to fellow novelist Laura Frankos. They have three daughters: Alison, Rachel, and Rebecca.