expected the Big Uglies to imitate the Race; that was how things were supposed to work. For the process to go into reverse struck him as altogether unnatural.
The fleetlord had never been found guilty of anything. Males and females here had endlessly questioned his judgment, but no one came close to showing criminal intent. That struck many other members of the Race as altogether unnatural. Atvar lived in half disgrace: the first fleetlord of a conquest fleet who wasn’t a conqueror.
He’d published his memoirs. They hadn’t made him rich. Along with his pension—which, thanks to the Emperor’s generosity, no underling had cut off—what they’d earned did keep him comfortable. He hadn’t won any new friends in the government with their title—he’d called them
I Told You So.
Males and females here needed telling. As far as those who didn’t pretend to be Big Uglies were concerned, Tosev 3 was just a world a long way off, light-years and light-years. They knew the conquest hadn’t gone the way it should, but they didn’t know why, or what that meant. Despite Atvar’s memoirs, most of them seemed inclined to blame him.
These days, one needed special skill with computers to coax his telephone code out of the data-retrieval system. Too many males and females had that expertise; he got a lot of crank calls. Because he got so many, he didn’t rush to the phone when it hissed for attention. Instead, he went at more of a resigned amble. “This is Atvar. I greet you,” he said, while his fingerclaw was poised to end the conversation on the instant.
The male on the other end of the line said, “And I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord. This is Senior Planner Facaros, in the Ministry of Transportation.”
Facaros’ body paint confirmed his title. “What can I do for you, Senior Planner?” Atvar asked, intrigued in spite of himself. Home did not have a Soldiers’ Time now. There was no Ministry of Conquest. The Ministry of Transportation, which oversaw ordinary spaceflight, came as close as any other body to taking charge of matters military.
“We have just received word from Tosev 3,” Facaros said. “The Big Uglies from the not-empire known as the United States”—he did not pronounce the Tosevite words very well—“have launched a starship. Its apparent destination is Home.”
“Have they?” Atvar’s hiss was phlegmatic, not astonished. “Well, it was only a matter of time, though this was a bit sooner than I expected it of them.” He paused to think. The radio message from Tosev 3 had had to cross interstellar space, of course. While it was crossing the light-years, so was the Big Uglies’ ship, at some respectable fraction of the speed of light. “How long do we have until they get here?” he asked.
“About forty years, or a bit more,” Facaros replied. “We fly at about half of light speed, so—”
“Tell me something I do not know,” Atvar snapped. “I have done it. Have you?”
“Well . . . no, Exalted Fleetlord,” Facaros admitted. “As for what you do not know, the Tosevite ship seems to average about one third of light speed. Its total travel time between Tosev 3 and Home will be over sixty years.”
“More than forty years from now,” Atvar said musingly. “I may be here to see it, but I probably will not. I have lived a long time already. Forty more years would be beating the odds.”
“That is one of the reasons I have called you today,” Facaros said. “I wondered if you would consider going into cold sleep once more, so that you could be revived when the Big Uglies’ arrival is imminent. You are one of the Race’s experts on them, and—”
“You admit this now, do you?” Atvar broke in. “Do my critics in the government—which means just about everyone but the Emperor—admit it as well?”
“Formally, no,” Facaros said. “Informally . . . This request would not have been made in the absence of a consensus about your value to the Race.”
That, Atvar
The fleetlord had never been found guilty of anything. Males and females here had endlessly questioned his judgment, but no one came close to showing criminal intent. That struck many other members of the Race as altogether unnatural. Atvar lived in half disgrace: the first fleetlord of a conquest fleet who wasn’t a conqueror.
He’d published his memoirs. They hadn’t made him rich. Along with his pension—which, thanks to the Emperor’s generosity, no underling had cut off—what they’d earned did keep him comfortable. He hadn’t won any new friends in the government with their title—he’d called them
I Told You So.
Males and females here needed telling. As far as those who didn’t pretend to be Big Uglies were concerned, Tosev 3 was just a world a long way off, light-years and light-years. They knew the conquest hadn’t gone the way it should, but they didn’t know why, or what that meant. Despite Atvar’s memoirs, most of them seemed inclined to blame him.
These days, one needed special skill with computers to coax his telephone code out of the data-retrieval system. Too many males and females had that expertise; he got a lot of crank calls. Because he got so many, he didn’t rush to the phone when it hissed for attention. Instead, he went at more of a resigned amble. “This is Atvar. I greet you,” he said, while his fingerclaw was poised to end the conversation on the instant.
The male on the other end of the line said, “And I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord. This is Senior Planner Facaros, in the Ministry of Transportation.”
Facaros’ body paint confirmed his title. “What can I do for you, Senior Planner?” Atvar asked, intrigued in spite of himself. Home did not have a Soldiers’ Time now. There was no Ministry of Conquest. The Ministry of Transportation, which oversaw ordinary spaceflight, came as close as any other body to taking charge of matters military.
“We have just received word from Tosev 3,” Facaros said. “The Big Uglies from the not-empire known as the United States”—he did not pronounce the Tosevite words very well—“have launched a starship. Its apparent destination is Home.”
“Have they?” Atvar’s hiss was phlegmatic, not astonished. “Well, it was only a matter of time, though this was a bit sooner than I expected it of them.” He paused to think. The radio message from Tosev 3 had had to cross interstellar space, of course. While it was crossing the light-years, so was the Big Uglies’ ship, at some respectable fraction of the speed of light. “How long do we have until they get here?” he asked.
“About forty years, or a bit more,” Facaros replied. “We fly at about half of light speed, so—”
“Tell me something I do not know,” Atvar snapped. “I have done it. Have you?”
“Well . . . no, Exalted Fleetlord,” Facaros admitted. “As for what you do not know, the Tosevite ship seems to average about one third of light speed. Its total travel time between Tosev 3 and Home will be over sixty years.”
“More than forty years from now,” Atvar said musingly. “I may be here to see it, but I probably will not. I have lived a long time already. Forty more years would be beating the odds.”
“That is one of the reasons I have called you today,” Facaros said. “I wondered if you would consider going into cold sleep once more, so that you could be revived when the Big Uglies’ arrival is imminent. You are one of the Race’s experts on them, and—”
“You admit this now, do you?” Atvar broke in. “Do my critics in the government—which means just about everyone but the Emperor—admit it as well?”
“Formally, no,” Facaros said. “Informally . . . This request would not have been made in the absence of a consensus about your value to the Race.”
That, Atvar
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