Arrows of Orion (redux)

15th day of Midyear, P.C. 22473
21 August 2015



The President heaved a great sigh and looked out the window past the imposing monuments and the public buildings of the capital, the white of the marble stark against the sky, at the distant horizon. Great, blue-black clouds gathered and piled up on each other in a boiling mass, reaching out for him, as sheet lightning flared fitfully and occasionally resolved itself into a multitude of bluish-white bolts tracing incredibly intiricate and brief patterns across the sky. There was a storm coming, alright, no doubt about it. Though he couldn't hear it yet, if he concentrated hard enough, he could just feel the ominous rumble of ditant thunder.

He sighed again, taking that as a warning. He couldn't help but feel that if he were truly lucky, one of those lightning bolts would reach out of the sky and end what was rapidly becoming a miserable existence. At least then, all of his worries would become someone else's problem, and he could at last rest.

The reason for his bout of melancholy lay untouched on top of his low desk, the latest report from the war zones, nestled between its bright red covers, the security seals unbroken. He hadn't bothered to read it, already knowing what it said.

The cold, precise language would drone on for pages, backed up by charts and graphs and statistics, but in the end it would all come down to a single, inescapable conclusion. They were all living on the borrowed time of a terminally ill patient, and time was running out.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, breaking his train of thought as it demanded his attention. He turned away from the window and the approaching storm, silencing it.

"Yes?"

"Mr. President, the Chief Minister is here," his receptionist said.

"Thank you. Please show him in," the President said. He got up and came around the desk as the door opened to greet his visitor.

"Good afternoon, Estlandor," the Chief Minister said, raising a hand and bowing slightly. Having known him since childhood, he was one of only a very select few who would dare to address the President by his familiar name.

"Athlenshar. It is good to see you," the President eplied, returning the gesture with a slightly deeper bow.

"Is it?" Athlenshar said, his ears twitching in amusement.

"Why wouldn't it be?" the President asked, knowing exactly why it wouldn't but observing the niceties nonetheless. He indicated a chair. "Please, sit."

"Thank you." There was a low, drawn-out boom as Athlenshar slid into the seat, rattling the windows in their frames. "Quite a storm brewing, isn't there?" he asked.

Estlandor grunted, wondering how much of a double meaning his visitor had really intended. It was, he decied, no doubt deliberate, given the reason for the Chief Minister's visit. He had known it was coming, and had dreaded it. "The likes of which we have rarely seen," he agreed, answering one double-entendre with another.

"You have no interest in keeping up with your reading?" Athlenshar asked, gesturing at the report sitting untouched on the desk.

"What's the point? I already know what it says," Estlandor replied, holding his hands out in a shrug. "And it's depressingly the same as the one before that, and the one before that . . ."

"The war does not go well," Athlenshar said, flapping his ears in agreement. "Ninth Fleet is smashed, Eslanor and Arason are lost, and the enemy continues to come on."

"The war has never gone well, my friend, and now it is going from bad to worse. The Outer Rim is long gone, the Mid-Marches are all but gone, and it won't be long before the Core is breached."

"And you do not believe we can prevent that," Athlenshar said.

"Not quite true," Estlandor said, twitching a hand in negation. "We have, as you well know, one possibility. But we have to be willing to take it."

"There is, you know, a sizeable minority of the Master's Council that believes that would be a mistake," Athlenshar said carefully.

"I am aware of that. They are being foolish."

The Chief Minister sighed. This was an old argument and, in truth, one on which he was himself undecided. He could see merits on both sides of the debate. "Be that as it may, even you have to admit that the results the last time were, shall we say, less than optimal."

"We acted hastily then. The Council wanted results immediately, misjudged the need for further development, then overcompensated and acted rashly. That was a mistake," Estlandor said, waving away the objection. "We have learned from that, refined our techniques, and the subjects are more mature now."

"Indeed," Athlenshar said in a neutral tone.

"The point is, we have no choice, now. You know that, and so do they, if they would stop considering their own fears and really look at the data. Our resources are stretched past their limits, and every day we wait, the more we lose and the weaker we become," Estlandor said, irritation creeping into his voice. Tell me, will they not act until the enemy is pounding on the doors of Parliament?"

"It isn't that easy a decision," Athlenshar said, trying to soothe his friend.

"Isn't it? This falls to me, you know, in my capacity as Chair of the Security Council. I could make it an Order of State."

"You could also be removed from office in a vote of No Confidence," Athlenshar pointed out. "And you will be if you try and force your hand without convincing the Master's Council of the need."

"We have no other options," Estlandor said stubbornly. "What more convincing do they need?"

"There are other considerations that have to be taken into account, my friend," Athlenshar said, gesturing for the other to see the reasoning. "Are you sure the subjects can be controlled, for instance? What do we stand to lose if we let them loose on the universe? There will be consequences for that, both for them and ourselves. Their culture is young and uncertain, and they are often unpredictable, while ours is cursed with the fragility of great age. The ones that was have assimilated have become saddled with that same curse, a loss for both them and us. We haven't been terribly successful in mixing, and forcing the issue could be a shattering experience for both. That is the concern."

"A greater concern than losing everything? You've read the reports, too," Estlandor said, gesturing at the one on his desk. "It's a simple data-set. Either we continue on as we have, and the result will be as if we had never existed, or we take the one option open to us and perhaps survive. We can, and we will, guide them, just as any good parent would do. That is our responsibility, to lead them to that which is best for them, and for us. And we have more experience in dealing with their kind, now."

"Well, at least you are confident," Athlenshar said, his ears twitching in amusement again. "Though I must admit that I am hrd pressed to see how a few anthropological expeditions and cullings to replenish the 'wild' strain count as more experience."

"A confidence born of desperation, you mean?" Estlandor asked. "Very well, then, yes. But again, we have little choice. They are a war-like race, and when was the last time we fought a real war? Five thousand years ago? Six? Very few of us are war-like races, and those few are close to exhaustion."

"And that, too, is a concern," Athlenshar said with a sigh. "It would hardly be an optimal solution to be saved from one enemy, only to have our saviours turn on us in the end."

"They won't," Estlandor said, putting as much confidence into his words as he could. It helped that he firmly believed that, too.

"All right, I know you have a plan," Athlenshar said after a moment's thought. "Give it to me, and I will convince the Master's Council, somehow. It may take my first-born, but . . ."

"Thank you, Athlenshar," the President said. He opened a drawer and handed over a thick sheaf of papers.

The Chief Minister looked at them for a moment as if they might bite him. "You realize, of course, that if I do this, they will insist on holding you responsible for whatever happens?" he asked.

"I do."

"All right, then," Athlenshar said, getting to his feet. "I truly hope that you know what you are doing with this. I'll let you know what the Council's decision is." The windows rattled again to another rumbling peal of thunder and the sibilant hiss of a wind gust.

"You should hurry," Estlandor said to his guest. "The storm won't wait long."