her own. Trouble sometimes begins on such grounds.
Baugnez II was also unimportant. Yet there were humans in some numbers and there were ships, naval and merchant, that called from time to time to take off one or another of its few exports, to import perhaps a few luxuries, or simply for a break from the tedium of space travel.
The planet itself had no government, being a loose collection of ill-defined clans. Still, somebody had to be there to see to the needs of merchants and the imperial navy. As a rule, in places like Baugnez II, the somebody was called a governor and the governor was chosen from the local pool of available nobodies.
Thus it was that one highly indignant replacement governor was sent out all the way from distant Terra to take her post in this barely known shard of empire.
Magda Dunkelmeier, the new governor, was a modern woman, certainly modern in her attitudes. She was certain—absolutely convinced—that only some sort of men’s conspiracy had removed her from the center of moving and shaking. Either a conspiracy, or perhaps the machinations of the little bimbo of a CD-Seven who had not only caught the eye of the Secretary, but coveted Dunkelmeier’s previous job.
She would show them, however. She would be back. Once she had demonstrated her abilities by bringing the primitives of Baugnez II back into the mainstream of civilization, she would be back with a vengeance.
First, she concluded, there would have to be cultural reform, forced down the people throats if necessary. Then industrialization, afterwards proper democracy. After that was accomplished, recognition and a victorious return from exile were sure to follow.
But first things first.
“Worship as you please,” said the governor to a collection of clan elders. All men, she noted, with significance. “But this seclusion of women, their covering their faces in shame… this must stop.”
“But so our laws command, Madame,” said an elder of the planet. “The women themselves prefer it this way.”
“Then they can learn to prefer not to as well,” answered the Governor, drawing up her graying but proud head. “Under the Charter for this colony, my word is deemed law. This is my word: as of this moment it is against the law for your women to conceal themselves from view.”
This was the triviality that began the trouble, which spun rapidly out of the governor’s control. Like a metastasizing cancer, it rapidly grew out of anyone’s control. After official, but private, protests were ignored, unofficial and public protests followed… as did riots… as did arrests… as did assassinations and bombings and ambushes. And, of course, executions. There were many executions. Guerilla warfare soon flared across the length and breadth of the planet.
Furious at being defied, and more furious still at having her career stymied by hard-headed primitives, with control of the countryside slipping through her grasp, and with credible reports in hand of aliens supplying arms to the rebels, the governor at length called for reinforcements. A battalion of Rathas, Fourth of the Tenth, was duly ordered to Baugnez II with orders to quell the rebellion. The Rathas themselves attempted to argue that they were suboptimal for this kind of mission, but nobody listened. They were, after all, nothing but machines.
I had my doubts, of course, but I still did my duty without demure. After all, I had no specific programming forbidding combat against humans. My creators had been far too wise to permit any such inhibition. And, for some purposes, we Rathas could be highly useful adjuncts to a counter-insurgency force, even if we were poorly suited to conduct such operations ourselves.
Our biggest advantage was sheer size; we were terribly intimidating to simple country folk. A typical, oft-repeated operation went like this: I would arrive at a village at the break of dawn, always without warning. I would then fire a pattern of scatterable mines,
Baugnez II was also unimportant. Yet there were humans in some numbers and there were ships, naval and merchant, that called from time to time to take off one or another of its few exports, to import perhaps a few luxuries, or simply for a break from the tedium of space travel.
The planet itself had no government, being a loose collection of ill-defined clans. Still, somebody had to be there to see to the needs of merchants and the imperial navy. As a rule, in places like Baugnez II, the somebody was called a governor and the governor was chosen from the local pool of available nobodies.
Thus it was that one highly indignant replacement governor was sent out all the way from distant Terra to take her post in this barely known shard of empire.
Magda Dunkelmeier, the new governor, was a modern woman, certainly modern in her attitudes. She was certain—absolutely convinced—that only some sort of men’s conspiracy had removed her from the center of moving and shaking. Either a conspiracy, or perhaps the machinations of the little bimbo of a CD-Seven who had not only caught the eye of the Secretary, but coveted Dunkelmeier’s previous job.
She would show them, however. She would be back. Once she had demonstrated her abilities by bringing the primitives of Baugnez II back into the mainstream of civilization, she would be back with a vengeance.
First, she concluded, there would have to be cultural reform, forced down the people throats if necessary. Then industrialization, afterwards proper democracy. After that was accomplished, recognition and a victorious return from exile were sure to follow.
But first things first.
“Worship as you please,” said the governor to a collection of clan elders. All men, she noted, with significance. “But this seclusion of women, their covering their faces in shame… this must stop.”
“But so our laws command, Madame,” said an elder of the planet. “The women themselves prefer it this way.”
“Then they can learn to prefer not to as well,” answered the Governor, drawing up her graying but proud head. “Under the Charter for this colony, my word is deemed law. This is my word: as of this moment it is against the law for your women to conceal themselves from view.”
This was the triviality that began the trouble, which spun rapidly out of the governor’s control. Like a metastasizing cancer, it rapidly grew out of anyone’s control. After official, but private, protests were ignored, unofficial and public protests followed… as did riots… as did arrests… as did assassinations and bombings and ambushes. And, of course, executions. There were many executions. Guerilla warfare soon flared across the length and breadth of the planet.
Furious at being defied, and more furious still at having her career stymied by hard-headed primitives, with control of the countryside slipping through her grasp, and with credible reports in hand of aliens supplying arms to the rebels, the governor at length called for reinforcements. A battalion of Rathas, Fourth of the Tenth, was duly ordered to Baugnez II with orders to quell the rebellion. The Rathas themselves attempted to argue that they were suboptimal for this kind of mission, but nobody listened. They were, after all, nothing but machines.
I had my doubts, of course, but I still did my duty without demure. After all, I had no specific programming forbidding combat against humans. My creators had been far too wise to permit any such inhibition. And, for some purposes, we Rathas could be highly useful adjuncts to a counter-insurgency force, even if we were poorly suited to conduct such operations ourselves.
Our biggest advantage was sheer size; we were terribly intimidating to simple country folk. A typical, oft-repeated operation went like this: I would arrive at a village at the break of dawn, always without warning. I would then fire a pattern of scatterable mines,
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