A Savage War Of Peace (Ark Royal Book 5) (7 page)

“I understand,” Percy said.  “Their margin for error is growing alarmingly thin.”

“Too thin,” Fanwood agreed.  “And Pegasus is even less habitable than Vesy.”

Percy cleared his throat.  “Thank you,” he said.  “You and your men will probably be uplifted when the freighter returns, but until then ...”

“We were looking at ways to improve the local building industry,” Fanwood said, cutting him off.  “It wouldn't be hard to teach the Vesy how to make bricks and mortar, or even cement.  We have quite a body of outdated knowledge in our files that they would treat as manna from heaven.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Percy said. 

“You must admit they need it,” Fanwood countered.  “You've
seen
their living spaces!”

Percy nodded.  He’d seen a hidden village, buried in the forest, and the interior of a giant city that reminded him of ancient ruins in Mexico.  They’d both been filthy by human standards; the streets coated in layers of bodily wastes, despite the risks of disease, the Vesy themselves hardly bothering to wash when it wasn't raining heavily.  The medics suggested their immune systems were stronger than the average human immune system, something they needed desperately.  Their cities were breeding grounds for disease. 

“It wouldn’t be hard to show them how to build sewers,” Fanwood continued.  “Hell, the Romans had sewers!  Or even just to build gutters and wash the shit out of their cities for good.  Or ...”

“That problem may take care of itself,” Percy pointed out.  “They know how to produce gunpowder now.”

He held up a hand before Fanwood could say a word.  “I understand your feelings on the matter, sir, and I will pass your suggestions to the diplomats when they arrive, but right now we are not meant to interfere in their affairs.”

“We have already interfered,” Fanwood snapped.  “Our mere presence
here
is interference in their affairs!”

He was right, Percy knew.  The buildings just outside Fort Knight didn't belong to a single city-state; they belonged to representatives from every city-state for a thousand miles and traders who had come to see what the humans had to trade.  He’d told the Vesy they’d contacted first, months ago, not to interfere with the gathering of representatives, but he had a feeling it hadn't gone down very well.  The factions who had aided the human race clearly believed they had first right to any rewards.

And if we weren't here
, he thought, grimly,
they would be trying to kill each other by now
.

It wasn't a pleasant thought.  Before the Russians had arrived, the Vesy had largely been grouped in city-states, not unlike Ancient Greece or Rome.  The Russians, by arming a particular faction, had introduced the Vesy to the concept of
empire
... and, even after their defeat, several Vesy factions were trying to build their own empires.  It was impossible to monitor the locals to any great degree - Percy didn’t have the tools to keep an eye on them - but satellite observation revealed that a number of city-states were waging increasingly brutal wars against one another.  The influx of tools, gunpowder and a handful of human weapons had only made the slaughter worse.

“I would suggest you make your representations to the diplomats,” he said, curtly.  “This isn't the time to do anything that might upset one of the factions.”

“The factions might become upset because we haven't paid them for their services,” Fanwood offered.  “How do you plan to cope with that?”

Percy shrugged.  The Vesy would have to be insane if they attacked Fort Knight ... assuming, of course, that they comprehended the sheer scale of the Human Sphere.  There was literally nothing they could do against a single destroyer raining rocks from high overhead, as
Warspite
had proven in the final moments of the first Human-Vesy engagement.  But would they understand the danger?  The further away the city-states were from the battle, the more their inhabitants would believe the reports to be exaggerated.  They might not take the threat of retaliation from the stars seriously.

“There has to be something we can offer now, something that will keep them tranquil,” Fanwood insisted.  “Corporal ...”

“The decisions involved are well above my pay grade,” Percy said.  He was surprised he’d been left on Vesy at all, rather than his immediate superior.  And his orders were really nothing more than defend Fort Knight, look after the former hostages and wait for the diplomats - and reinforcements.  “I have no intention of making a bad situation worse before the diplomats arrive.”

“It's been six months,” Fanwood said.  “How long do you intend to stay here?”

Percy snorted.  “I suppose we could always
walk
home,” he said, sarcastically.  “You could always invent surface-to-surface wormholes if you have nothing else to do.”

He shook his head.  “I knew we would be trapped here for months,” he added.  “We didn't really have a choice.”

“Hah,” Fanwood said.

He nodded to Percy, then turned and walked out of the hatch, closing it firmly behind him.  Percy sighed, then looked back at his datapad, resting on the desk.  He had reports to write, even though there was little to say.  And, no matter what he said to Fanwood, there were times when he wondered if they’d been abandoned on Vesy.  It shouldn't have taken more than a couple of months for a ship to arrive from Earth.

They’re probably still bickering about what to do
, he thought, as he picked up the datapad and started to type in his next report. 
A whole new alien race ... they have to see opportunities here.  And while they’re arguing, we’re quartered safe out here.

He shook his head.  Whatever else could be said about Fanwood, the man was right about at least one thing.  Vesy might not remain safe for very long.

Chapter Six

“Rather cramped, isn't it?”

Ambassador Joelle Richardson did her best to ignore Grace Scott’s comment as she followed the young midshipman into the Officer’s Mess.  HMS
Warspite
was small, compared to the fleet carrier she’d travelled on during a brief visit to Tadpole-Prime, and her quarters were correspondingly tiny.  Joelle didn't particularly care - she’d slept in worse places - but some of her staff had been moaning and groaning ever since they’d seen the small compartments they were expected to share.

The Officer’s Mess didn't look any larger than her office on Earth, although it was a great deal more barren.  Each of the bulkheads was painted white - one held a painting of
Warspite
that, she assumed, had been done by one of the crew - and the table was plain metal, covered in white paint.  The idea of hosting a diplomatic discussion in such surroundings was laughable, although she had a feeling that it would help the diplomats to come to a quicker resolution.  Or, the more cynical part of her mind suggested, start them issuing declarations of war. 

“Ambassador Richardson,” a voice said.  She looked up to see the Captain rising from his chair and walking around the table to greet her.  “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet you earlier.”

“That’s quite all right,” Joelle assured him, taking his hand and shaking it briskly.  Her staff had complained, loudly, but she knew from prior experience that starship crews had a great deal of work to do before their ships could depart.  “It’s easier to get settled in before we meet formally.”

She studied the Captain with some interest as she let go of his hand.  He was tall, his dark hair cropped close to his scalp, his face lined in a manner that reminded her of far too many other combat veterans.  His piercing blue eyes would have been attractive, she suspected, if she hadn't sensed a single-minded purposefulness surrounding him.  The dark uniform he wore showed off his muscular body to best advantage.

And he went down to a planet to confront rebels in person
, she thought.  The media had made much of it, even though a number of talking heads had condemned Captain Naiser for leaving his ship in an emergency situation. 
This is a brave man
.

“Please, be seated,” the Captain said, indicating a row of chairs.  “We took the liberty of having food shipped up from Earth.”

“Thank you,” Joelle said.  She sat, facing a dark-skinned officer who regarded her with curious eyes.  “It's been far too long since I was on a starship.”

She indicated her party as the Captain returned to his chair at the head of the table.  “Grace Scott, my assistant; Colonel John Mortimer, Security Expert; Professor Scott Nordstrom of Edinburgh University, Xenospecialist; Penny Schneider, embedded reporter.”

The Captain’s eyes narrowed at Penny’s name, but he said nothing.  Joelle puzzled over it for a long moment, then remembered Penny telling her that her brother had been assigned to
Warspite
and then left behind on Vesy, in charge of the garrison there.  Later, Joelle had looked it up and confirmed that the Schneider children, born to a war hero and then adopted by another war hero with excellent aristocratic connections, were destined for a glittering future.  It was probably why Penny had won the coveted post of embedded reporter, despite her youth.

“I read your paper on the implications of contact with the Vesy,” Captain Naiser said to Professor Nordstrom, once he’d introduced his crew.  “It was quite provocative.”

“Thank you, Captain,” the Professor said.  “Unfortunately, I was not permitted to interview you before writing my paper.”

“There’s little to add that didn't go in the reports,” the Captain said.  “They’re not human, really, and that’s the important issue.”

Joelle nodded.  “We have some experience with non-human minds already, Captain,” she said.  “The dangers have been noted and logged.”

“And we have more space for mistakes,” Colonel Mortimer added.  “The Vesy, quite simply, do not pose a threat to us.”

“Not physically,” Professor Nordstrom said.  “However, it cannot be denied that contact with them may do us considerable social and political damage.”

Joelle smiled, rather ruefully.  “Captain, can I suggest we eat first?  We’ll be here all night if he starts to discourse on the dangers.”

“Of course,” the Captain said.  He signalled a steward, who came forward pushing a large trolley of soup bowls.  “We can stay here all night afterwards, if you wish.”

The soup tasted faintly of carrot and coriander, Joelle discovered, as she sipped it thoughtfully and studied the crew.  Commander Howard - she’d taken the precaution of skimming through the personnel files during the flight to
Warspite
- looked calm and composed, while - beside him - Lieutenant-Commander Rosenberg appeared to be bored, although she was doing a good job of hiding it.  Joelle couldn't help a flicker of sympathy; she’d always hated ceremonial dinners as a junior representative, when she’d been too junior to be allowed to talk, but too senior to be left in her quarters.  Beyond her, the Chief Engineer had finished his soup and was muttering quietly to an officer she didn’t recognise.  The stewards removed the soup bowls as soon as they were finished, then started to bring out the next set of dishes.  They might have lacked the polish of the Foreign Office’s catering staff, she noted absently, but they were efficient.

“That tasted better than I expected,” Grace muttered.

“Remind me to discuss the definition of diplomacy with you later,” Joelle muttered back.  It had been a long time since she’d tasted military food, but she didn't remember it with any fondness.  “They brought this up from Earth for us.”

Grace looked embarrassed, which faded quickly as she dug into her roast beef and Yorkshire pudding.  It wasn't something the average person on Earth would enjoy very often, not now; Joelle couldn't help a twinge of guilt as she recalled that rationing was still in place over large tracts of Britain.  Hell, one of the reasons more and more people were emigrating to Britannia or Nova Scotia was that there was no rationing there, as well as more room to breathe.  It probably wouldn't last indefinitely, she was sure, but there were definite advantages to getting in on the ground floor.

“This is very good,” she said, addressing the Captain.  “Your crew are excellent cooks.”

“Thank you, Ambassador,” the Captain said.  “Turning military rations into something edible requires an above-average cook.”

Joelle had to smile as she finished her dinner, then allowed the stewards to take it away and bring a large pot of tea.  There would be no coffee tonight, not if she wanted to sleep.  The sooner she got used to sleeping on the cruiser, the better.  It was something she’d learned from her mentor, back when they’d travelled to Tadpole-Prime. 

“I don’t see how contact with the Vesy could cause political damage to us,” Commander Howard said, once the dishes were cleared away.  “Professor?”

Professor Nordstrom cleared his throat.  “If you will pardon a slight digression,” he said, “all human affairs are governed by strength.  A stronger ... ah,
person
could have his way with a weaker person, no matter how his victim felt about it.  Internationally, a stronger nation can get what it wants from a weaker nation, as they have the strength to impose their will.”

He took a breath, then leaned forward.  “There was a period in human history where we preferred to pretend that wasn’t true,” he continued.  “We tried to convince ourselves that it was immoral for strong countries to pick on weaker countries ... and then that the strong country was
always
in the wrong.  The Age of Unrest was a direct result of our failure to ensure that weaker countries knew, if you will pardon the expression, their place.  They believed themselves immune to punishment because the strong chose to bind themselves with their own decency.”

“The strong picking on the weak is called bullying,” Commander Howard said, dryly.

“Yes, but only if the victim doesn't deserve it,” Professor Nordstrom said.  “If a weaker country is hosting a terrorist camp that poses a threat to a stronger country, is it bullying for the stronger country to destroy the terrorist camp, no matter where it is located?”

He shrugged.  “It is important to note,” he warned, “that the Vesy are primitive compared to us.  There will be a very strong temptation to use force to get what we want from them.”

Joelle couldn't disagree.  She’d worked in both gunboat diplomacy - practiced against countries that were too weak to pose a threat - and actual diplomacy with the Great Powers, where outright conflict would probably result in mutual annihilation.  There was no patience for negotiating with weaker countries, countries inhabited by people too stupid to realise the true cause of their problems.  If they caused trouble, they got walloped.  It had been the way of things since the Age of Unrest had swept aside a great many illusions.

“This leads to a second point,” Professor Nordstrom added.  “There is a tendency amongst a certain kind of people to believe that the wiser folks should act as parents to the unwise folks - and you should have no doubt in which category they place themselves.  They see themselves as the parents and everyone else as the children - and, in doing so, assert the right to dictate how people live their lives.  Indeed, before the Age of Unrest, there were entire organisations and charities that, with the best of intentions, set out to inflict their so-called wisdom on so-called primitive societies.  The results were rarely pleasant.”

He met Howard’s eyes.  “The weaker societies were often devastated by the influx of bad wisdom,” he said.  “But the stronger societies lost the wisdom to
question
the rightness of their actions.  Being charitable was seen as a good thing in itself; there was no awareness that charity had to be tailored to local requirements or that the ultimate intention needed to be weaning the weaker societies off charity.  There was no feedback system that allowed them to actually measure the success of their acts. Nor did they have any real understanding of the societies they were trying to improve.  Their ...
idealised
view of the locals prevented them from actually understanding them.

“In short, they acted like bad parents, alternatively scolding the child and preventing him from having to face the consequences of his mistakes.”

“They believed in the concept of the noble savage,” the Captain said, slowly.

“Precisely,” Professor Nordstrom said.

He looked down at his cup of tea, then back at the Captain.  “We could teach the Vesy so many things, Captain,” he said.  “But they would grow into cheap copies of us, at best, with all the virtues of their society destroyed.  And we would see that as a good result, so we would not hesitate to do the same to another alien race, should we encounter one.”

Grace snorted.  “But why should we leave them in squalor?”

Joelle smiled, inwardly.  She’d picked her staff for their differing ideas in the hopes it would give her multiple different viewpoints ... and, it seemed, she’d succeeded magnificently.

“They can always get themselves out of squalor,” Professor Nordstrom pointed out, dryly.

“They can't,” Grace said.  She took a breath.  “If the reports are accurate, life on Vesy is nasty, brutish and short.  We could make their lives so much better simply by introducing a few ideas and concepts to them.  Don’t we have a moral duty to assist those less fortunate than ourselves?”

“But how long would it be,” the Professor asked, “before you started telling yourself that you always knew better than them?  That you knew what was good for them and anyone who disagreed was merely being short-sighted?”

Grace glowered at him.  “If I see a child living in squalor, it would be my duty to help,” she said, flatly.  “Does that change when the child isn't human?”

“You might be taking a child away from loving parents,” the Professor pointed out.  “Or you might be committing yourself to look after the child for the rest of your life.”

He paused.  “I understand your argument,” he admitted.  “There is a certain emotional impulse to help the less fortunate.  But, at the same time, we have to be careful what we teach them to do.  Simple measures against disease, as you suggest, would cause a population boom, which in turn would put a strain on their ability to feed their people.”