“Yet—while it is easy to denounce the CoDominium and its endless cynicism, it is not so certain that whatever replaces it will be better. Indeed, we must wonder just what would survive the collapse of the CoDominium . . .”
I
Twenty years later . . .
Earth floated eternally lovely above bleak lunar mountains. Daylight lay across California and most of the Pacific, and the glowing ocean made an impossibly blue background for a vortex of bright clouds swirling in a massive tropical storm. Beyond the lunar crags, man’s home was a fragile ball amidst the black star-studded velvet of space; a ball that a man might reach out to grasp and crush in his bare hands.
Grand Admiral Sergei Lermontov looked at the bright viewscreen image and thought how easy it would be for Earth to die. He kept her image on the viewscreen to remind himself of that every time he looked up.
“That’s all we can get you, Sergei.” His visitor sat with hands carefully folded in his lap. A photograph would have shown him in a relaxed position, seated comfortably in the big visitor’s chair covered with leathers from animals that grew on planets a hundred light years from Earth. Seen closer, the real man was not relaxed at all. He looked that way from his long experience as a politician.
“I wish it could be more.” Grand Senator Martin Grant shook his head slowly from side to side. “At least it’s something.”
“We will lose ships and disband regiments. I cannot operate the Fleet on that budget.” Lermontov’s voice was flat and precise. He adjusted his rimless spectacles to a comfortable position on his thin nose. His gestures, like his voice, were precise and correct, and it was said in Navy wardrooms that the Grand Admiral practiced in front of a mirror.
“You’ll have to do the best you can. It’s not even certain the United Party can survive the next election. God knows we won’t be able to if we give any more to the Fleet.”
“But there is enough money for national armies.” Lermontov looked significantly at Earth’s image on the viewscreen. “Armies that can destroy earth. Martin, how can we keep the peace if you will not let us have ships and men?”
“You can’t keep the peace if there’s no CoDominium.”
Lermontov frowned. “Is there a real chance that the United Party will lose, then?”
Martin Grant’s head bobbed in an almost imperceptible movement. “Yes.”
“And the United States will withdraw from the CD.” Lermontov thought of all that would mean, for Earth and for the nearly hundred worlds where men lived. “Not many of the colonies will survive without us. It is too soon. If we did not suppress science and research it might be different, but there are so few independent worlds—Martin, we are spread thin across the colony worlds. The CoDominium must help them. We created their problems with our colonial governments. We gave them no chances at all to live without us. We cannot let them go suddenly.”
Grant sat motionless, saying nothing.
“Yes, I am preaching to the converted. But it is the Navy that gave the Grand Senate this power over the colonies. I cannot help feeling responsible.”
Senator Grant’s head moved slightly again, either a nod or a tremor. “I would have thought there was a lot you could do, Sergei. The Fleet obeys you, not the Senate. I know my nephew has made that clear enough. The warriors respect another warrior, but they’ve only contempt for us politicians.”
“You are inviting treason?”
“No. Certainly I’m not suggesting that the Fleet try running the show. Military rule hasn’t worked very well for us, has it?” Senator Grant turned his head slightly to indicate the globe behind him. Twenty nations on Earth were governed by armies, none of them very well.
On the other hand, the politicians aren’t doing a much better job, he thought. Nobody is. “We don’t seem to have any goals, Sergei. We just hang on, hoping that things will get better. Why should they?”
“I have almost ceased to hope for better conditions,” Lermontov replied. “Now I only pray they do not get worse.” His lips twitched slightly in a thin smile. “Those prayers are seldom answered.”
“I spoke with my brother yesterday,” Grant said. “He’s threatening to retire again. I think he means it this time.”
“But he cannot do that!” Lermontov shuddered. “Your brother is one of the few men in the U. S. government who understands how desperate is our need for time.”
“I told him that.”
“And?”
Grant shook his head. “It’s the rat race, Sergei. John doesn’t see any end to it. It’s all very well to play rear guard, but for what?”
“Isn’t the survival of civilization a worthwhile goal?”
“If that’s where we’re headed, yes. But what assurance do we have that we’ll achieve even that?”
The Grand Admiral’s smile was wintry. “None, of course. But we may be sure that nothing will survive if we do not have more time. A few years of peace, Martin. Much can happen in a few years. And if nothing does—why, we will have had a few years.”
The wall behind Lermontov was covered with banners and plaques. Centered among them was the CoDominium Seal: American eagle, Soviet sickle and hammer, red stars and white stars. Beneath it was the Navy’s official motto: PEACE IS OUR PROFESSION.
We chose that motto for them, Grant thought. The Senate made the Navy adopt it. Except for Lermontov I wonder how many Fleet officers believe it? What would they have chosen if left to themselves?
There are always the warriors, and if you don’t give them something worthwhile to fight for . . . But we can’t live without them, because there comes a time when you have to have warriors. Like Sergei Lermontov.
But do we have to have politicians like me? “I’ll talk to John again. I’ve never been sure how serious he is about retiring anyway. You get used to power, and it’s hard to lay it down. It only takes a little persuasion, some argument to let you justify keeping it. Power’s more addicting than opiates.”
“But you can do nothing about our budget.”
“No. Fact is, there’s more problems. We need Bronson’s votes, and he’s got demands.”
Lermontov’s eyes narrowed, and his voice was thick with distaste. “At least we know how to deal with men like Bronson.” And it was strange, Lermontov thought, that despicable creatures like Bronson should be so small as problems. They could be bribed. They expected to be bought.
It was the men of honor who created the real problems. Men like Harmon in the United States and Kaslov in the Soviet Union, men with causes they would die for—they had brought mankind to this.
But I would rather know Kaslov and Harmon and their friends than Bronson’s people who support us.
“You won’t like some of what he’s asked for,” Grant said. “Isn’t Colonel Falkenberg a special favorite of yours?”
“He is one of our best men. I use him when the situation seems desperate. His men will follow him anywhere, and he does not waste lives in achieving our objectives.”
“He’s apparently stepped on Bronson’s toes once too often. They want him cashiered.”
“No.” Lermontov’s voice was firm.
Martin Grant shook his head. Suddenly he felt very tired, despite the low gravity of the moon. “There’s no choice, Sergei. It’s not just personal dislike, although there’s a lot of that too. Bronson’s making up to Harmon, and Harmon thinks Falkenberg’s dangerous.”
“Of course he is dangerous. He is a warrior. But he is a danger only to enemies of the CoDominium. . . .”
“Precisely.” Grant sighed again. “Sergei, I know. We’re robbing you of your best tools and then expecting you to do the work without them.”
“It is more than that, Martin. How do you control warriors?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I asked, ‘How do you control warriors?'” Lermontov adjusted his spectacles with the tips of the fingers of both hands. “By earning their respect, of course. But what happens if that respect is forfeit? There will be no controlling him; and you are speaking of one of the best military minds alive. You may live to regret this decision, Martin.”
“Can’t be helped. Sergei, do you think I like telling you to dump a good man for a snake like Bronson? But it doesn’t matter. The Patriot Party’s ready to make a big thing out of this, and Falkenberg couldn’t survive that kind of political pressure anyway, you know that. No officer can. His career’s finished no matter what.”
“You have always supported him in the past.”
“Goddamn it, Sergei, I appointed him to the Academy in the first place. I cannot support him, and you can’t either. He goes, or we lose Bronson’s vote on the budget.”
“But why?” Lermontov demanded. “The real reason.”