Lest We Forget Thee, Earth Page 12

  “This would violate a treaty even older than I,” Dominoor mused. “The three worlds are to remain separate and un-allied, perpetually outstretched at the vertices of a triangle. This to ensure safety in our galaxy. An alliance of this sort would collapse the triangle. It would break the treaty.”

  “Treaties are scraps of paper, my Lord.”

  “So they are. But important scraps. We would have to go to war to protect our rights. It would be painful and costly for all of us. Our cities might be destroyed.”

  “War between Morank and the allied worlds could be avoided,” Navarre said.

  “By giving you twelve of our ships?”

  “Yes. My plan is this: your ships shall be unmarked, unidentified in every way. No one will know they originate on Morank. I’ll undertake to repel the Jorus-Kariad fleet that is converging on Earth, driving them off in such a way that they think Earth is incalculably powerful. With luck, it’ll smash the Jorus-Kariad axis. It’ll incidentally save Earth. But also Morank will be untouched by war.”

  The Polisarch was smiling again.

  “At worst, it would cost me twelve ships. Such a, loss I could bear, if necessary. At best, I avoid a war in this cluster.”

  “You agree to the terms, then?”

  “The twelve ships are yours. Take them, Navarre, and use them well. Keep Jorus and Kariad apart. Keep war from touching Morank. Save your Earthmen from destruction. And, perhaps, thank an old man who has become a coward.”

  Navarre flushed. “Sire—”

  “Don’t try to contradict me. You see me humbled before you, Earthman. I give you the ships; play your little ruse. I .want only to die in peace. Let those who follow after worry ,about checking the rising tide that will eventually pour forth from Earth. I worry only about today; at my age, tomorrow is too distant.”

  There was nothing Navarre could say. He had achieved his goal; at least, in doing it, he had not deceived old Dominoor.

  XVII

  There were fifty ships in the armada: fifty great golden-hulled vessels, sleek and powerful, advancing at a steady pace across the galaxies.

  The flagship was a mighty gleaming ship that led the pack, a shark among sharks, a giant battleship of the realm of Jorus. The armada radiated confidence. They seemed to be saying, Here we are, twenty-five ships of Jorus and twenty-five of Kariad, crossing the universe to wipe out once and for all the pestilence of the Earthmen. ,

  Hallam Navarre sat in his own flagship, a vessel that once had borne the name Pride of Kariad, but now carried no designation whatever. He watched the steady advance of the alien armada.

  Fifty ships, he thought. Against eighteen.

  But we know how many they have. They can’t measure our” numbers.

  He sat poised behind his viewscreens, biding his time, thinking, waiting. They were fifty thousand light-years from Earth, now, and he had no intention of letting Kausirn’s fleet come any closer than five thousand. If even one ship eluded the inner fine of defense and got through to Earth…

  Helna appeared and -slipped into the seat next to his. She said, “It’ll all be decided now, won’t it? All the thousands of years of planning, ever since the Chalice was sealed and the sleepers put to rest.”

  Navarre nodded tightly. Thousands of years of planning, all dependent upon this one day, on these eighteen ships, ultimately on the mind of one man. He stared at his unquivering hands. He was steady, now; so much was at stake that his mind failed to encompass it, and apprehension was impossible.

  He jacked in the main communication line and studied the deployment of his eighteen ships.

  Four of them remained in close orbit around Earth, in constant radio contact with each other, ready to move rapidly when needed. He hoped they would not be needed; they were the last line of defense, the desperation blockaders, and it would be dark indeed if they had to be called into play.

  The smaller colony on Procyon had two ships guarding it. Six more were deployed at the farthest edges of the sphere of conflict, forming a border for the coming battle. That was his second line of defense.

  The remaining six ships formed a solid phalanx ten light-years across, turned outward toward the advancing combined armada. Navarre’s flagship was among this group. These would make the initial attack.

  The twelve ships given him by the Polisarch had been carefully recoated; their hulls no longer glowed in bright Morankimar colors, but now were an anonymous gray, all planetary designations concealed. Each of the ships had a small complement of Earthmen aboard, aiding the Morankimar captain. The aliens knew only that they were to take orders from the Earthmen; the Polisarch had made that amply clear in his instructions to the Grand Admiral.

  It might work, Navarre thought. If not, well, it had been a game try—and perhaps there might be another Chalice on some other world. Earth was not that easily defeated, he told himself.

  Time was drawing near. All the efforts, all the countless schemes, all Navarre’s many identities and many journeys, all converged into one moment now.

  He opened the all-fleet communicator and waited a moment until all the twenty-two bulbs at the side of the central monitor-board lit up.

  Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Attention, Unit A—low-intensity defense screens are to be replaced with full screens immediately.

  “Unit B—stand by until called into action as previously instructed.

  “Unit C—remain at your posts in orbit round the planets, and under no circumstances leave formation. “Unit D—stand by for emergency use. “The battle is about to begin.”

  There was a moment of silence. Quickly, Navarre reached up to shut off the all-fleet communicator; what he had to say now was directed at the armada. He signaled for a wide-beam subspace hookup.

  “All right,” he muttered. “Now it starts.”

  He drew the microphone toward him and said, in a ringing voice, “Attention invaders! Attention invaders! This is Hallam Navarre, Admiral of the Grand Fleet of Earth. Come in, invader flagship!”

  He repeated the message three times in Joran and three times in Kariadi. Then he sat back, staring at the complex network of machinery that was the communicator panel, waiting for some reply. Less than a thousand light-years separated the two fleets. The time-lag in communication should have been virtually nil. But a minute went by, and another, with no response.

  Navarre grew cold; were they simply going to ignore him and move right on into their midst?

  But after four minutes the speaker crackled into life, “This is Flagship calling Admiral Navarre.” The inflection was savagely sardonic. “Come in, Admiral Navarre. What do you want?”

  Navarre’s heart leaped. He hadn’t expected him to be commanding the armada in person! “Kausirn?”

  “Indeed. What troubles you, Navarre?”

  “You infringe on Terran domains, Kausirn. State the purpose of your invasion.”

  “I don’t think we need to explain to you, Navarre. The Terran Empire passed out of existence thirty thousand years before; you have no claim to any domain as such. And we’re here to see that no ghosts walk the starways.”

  “An invasion fleet?”

  “Call it that, if you will.”

  “Very well,” Navarre said sharply. “In that case I call on you to surrender or be destroyed. The full might of the Grand Fleet of Earth is waiting to hurl you back shattered to your own system.”

  Kausirn- laughed harshly. “The full might! Six stolen ships! Six against fifty! You deceived me once, Ambassador Domell—you won’t a second time!”

  A moment later a bright energy flare licked out across space toward the Terran flagship. Navarre’s screens easily deflected the thrust.

  “I warn you, Kausirn. Your fleet is outnumbered six to one. Terra’s resources are greater than you could have dreamed. Will you surrender?”

  “Ridiculous!” But’ it seemed to Navarre there was false bravado in Kausirn’s outburst; the Lyrellan appeared to be uncertain.

  “We of Eart
h hate needless bloodshed,” Navarre said. “I call upon the captains of the invading fleet to head their ships back to home. Kausirn is an alien; he hardly cares how many Joran or Kariadi lives he throws away.”

  “Don’t listen!” came the Lyrellan’s shout over the phones. “He’s bluffing! He has to be bluffing!” It sounded a trifle panicky.

  “All right,” Navarre said. “Here we come.”

  He gave the prearranged signal, and the culminating battle that had been planned so long entered into existence. The six ships that comprised his fighting wedge moved forward, charging across hyperspace toward the evenly spaced invading fleet.

  “You see!” Kausirn shouted triumphantly. “They have but six ships! We can crush them!”

  Navarre’s ship shook as the first heavy barrage crashed into it; the screens deflected the energy and a bright blue nimbus sprang into being around the ship as the overload was dissipated.

  Six ships against fifty—but six rebuilt ships, six ships so laden with defense screens that they were no faster than snails. They moved steadily into the heart of the armada, shaking off the alien barrage and counterattacking with thrusts of their own.

  They were unstoppable, those six ships—but difficult to maneuver, slow at returning fire. In time, the alien fleet could wear down their screens by continued assault, and that would end the battle.

  “Six outmoded crawlers,” Kausirn exulted. “And you ask us to surrender.”

  “The offer still goes,” Navarre said curtly.

  He gave the signal for the second third of the fleet to enter the fray.

  They came down from six directions at once, their heavy-cycle guns spouting flame. They converged inward on the Joran-Kariadi fleet, six light Morankimar vessels equipped for massive offensive thrusts.

  The invaders were caught unaware; four Joran ships crumbled and died in the first shock of the unsuspected attack.

  Kausirn was silent. Navarre knew, or hoped he knew, what the Lyrellan was thinking: I had expected only six defending ships. If the Earthmen have these additional six, how many more may they have?

  The radar screen was crisscrossed with light. Navarre’s original six plowed steadily forward, drawing the heaviest fire of the aliens and controlling it easily, while the six new ships plunged and swerved in daring leaps, weaving in and out of the alien lines so fast they could not even be counted.

  Navarre gave another signal. And suddenly three of his offensive platoon leaped from view, blanked out like extinguished candles, and reappeared at the far end of the battlefield. They drove downward from their new angle of attack, while the remaining trio likewise jumped out of warp and back in again. Navarre picked up bitter curses coming from the harassed aliens.

  Three more ships had perished. The odds were narrowing—forty-three against eighteen, now. And the aliens were definitely bewildered.

  The tactic was unheard-of; it was suicide to leave and reenter hyperspace in a confined area barely a thousand fight-years on a side. There was the ever-present consideration that one ship might re-materialize in an area already occupied; the detonation would be awesome.

  There was always the chance. But Navarre had computed it, and in actuality the chance was infinitesimal that two ships would re-enter the same space in such an area. It was worth the risk. Like leaping silver-bellied fish, his ships flicked in and out of space-time. And now the alien vessels moved in confused circles. Flick!

  Two astonished Kariadi vessels thundered headlong into each other to avoid a Terran vessel that had appeared less than a light-minute away from them. The proximity strained the framework of hyperspace; the hapless ships were sucked downward, out of control, into a wild vortex.

  Flick!

  Flick!

  Navarre’s checkboard showed eleven invader losses already, and not one Terran ship touched. He grinned cheerfully as one of his six original attackers speared through the screens of a bedeviled Joran destroyer and sent it reeling apart.

  “Kausirn? Are you convinced?” No answer came this time.

  Navarre frowned speculatively. So far the battle was going all Earth’s way; but eventually the shattered and confused invader lines would re-group, and eventually they would realize that only twelve Earth ships opposed them, not hundreds.

  Navarre gave one final signal. Suddenly, four more Terran ships warped into the area.

  They were dummies, half-finished ships manned by skeleton crews. They carried no arms, only rudimentary defense-screens; Navarre had ordered them held in check for just this moment. And here they were.

  At the same time the six warp-jumping ships stabilized themselves. Now sixteen Terran ships menaced the alien fleet at once, and there was no telling for the aliens how many more lurked in hidden reaches.

  The armada milled hesitantly. Ships changed course almost at random.

  Navarre’s vessels formed into a tight wheel and spun round the confused aliens. He opened the communicator channels wide and said, “We have already destroyed thirteen of your number at no cost to ourselves. Will you surrender now, or do we have to pick you all off, one by one? Speak up, Kausirn!”

  Garbled noise came from the communicator—sure sign that more than one ship’s captain was trying to speak at the same time. Navarre joyfully sensed indecision; he flashed one last-ditch signal along his communication channel, ordering the six defensive ships stationed round the planets to leave their base and join the fray. It was a rash move, but he knew the time had come to gamble all on the chance of success.

  He heard Kausirn’s cold steely voice saying insistently, “No! He’s bluffing us! He has to be bluffing!”

  The last six Terran ships winked into being, spitting death. The invader fleet rippled outward in disorganized retreat. Suddenly Navarre’s subradio phones brought over the sound of a single agonized scream.

  The sky was full of ships, now—twenty-two Terran ships, of which four were mere shells, and six more were so weighted with defense-screens that they were practically useless on offense.

  “Well, Kausirn? Do we have to bring out the real fleet, now?”

  No response.

  Navarre wondered about the scream he had heard. “Kausirn?”

  A new voice said suddenly, “The Lyrellan is dead. This is Admiral Garsignol of Kariad. By virtue of the authority vested in me by the Oligocrat Marhaill, I surrender to you the eighteen surviving Kariadi ships.”

  A moment later another voice broke into the channel, speaking in Joran. The nineteen Joran ships were likewise surrendering. They saw resistance was futile.

  It was over at last, Navarre thought, as he stared from the window of his office in the city of Phoenix, on Earth, looking outward at the thirty-seven alien vessels the battle had yielded.

  Victory was sweet.

  Earth now had forty-three ships of first-class tonnage, plus four more half-finished ones, and twelve more belonging to the -Polisarch of Morank. The Polisarch would never miss his ships, Navarre thought. And Earth needed them.

  Fifty-nine ships. That comprised a major armada in itself; hardly a hundred worlds in the universe could muster fleets of such size. Earth would be safe during the time of rebuilding. There would be no Second Empire, merely the free world of Earth.

  Earth numbered barely twelve thousand, now. But time would remedy that. The ancient legend had spoken truth: the Chalice indeed held the key to immortal life. Earth, reborn phoenix-like from its ashes of old, had once again won its place in the roll of worlds.

  Navarre looked out the broad window at the brightening hillside. The sun was rising; the city was stirring busily with the coming of day. He opened the window and let the air of Earth wash through the room, bright, clean, fresh. It was a time for beginning, he thought. In the days to come, a thousand million worlds would have cause to remember the name of the planet they had once forgotten.

  Earth.

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