The Well-Mannered War.

by Gareth Roberts.

Chapter One

Exchange of Fire.

The Darkness turned slowly through the Metra system, its bulk blotting out the stars as it pa.s.sed. An observer would have taken it for another piece of cosmic jetsam, an asteroid adrift, that might spin through the galaxies for ages until snared or crushed by some natural force. Its strangely regular shape - it resembled a rough-edged, inverted pyramid - might have drawn speculation; but this could be explained away as simply a simulacrum. As for the curious directness of the path it took, that was quite probably the result of local planetary gravities.

This hypothetical observer, like the majority of his kind, would have been wrong.

The Darkness was alive. It quivered with a unique and terrifying power, and had a talent for death. And it was on its way, its every sense alert, to keep a long-awaited appointment.

The booster rockets shut down shortly after take-off, as the carrier shuttle thrust through the ionosphere of Metralubit, first planet of the system. With a shudder the small grey ship aligned itself with the tracking beacon, engaged its fusion drive and slipped insolently from gravity's grip. Then it blurred and vanished, sucked into Fasts.p.a.ce, leaving a shower of glittering purple cinders that evaporated slowly like the trails of an exploded firework.

Dolne watched the huge spheroid of his homeworld, its land ma.s.ses and cities shrouded by the dense life-giving cloud that had attracted his colonist ancestors to it many thousands of years before, through the porthole on his side of the pa.s.senger lounge. At the moment of the leap an illusion was worked, and Metralubit seemed to crumple and be tossed away with the contempt of a child discarding a toy it had outgrown. Dolne knew that, in fact, it was the ship that had been s.n.a.t.c.hed out of normality, that it was he who had been plucked so rudely from normal s.p.a.ce, and the thought did nothing to aid his agitation. His heart pumped furiously, his brow gleamed with fresh sweat-trickles. In nearly thirty years in service he must have made this journey a thousand times. Each trip he fought hard to maintain his stolid expression in the awful, bowel-churning moment of transition, and failed. For a soldier, for the commander-in-chief of an army engaged in a lengthy conflict, he was uncommonly nervous. He added to this self judgement the defence that it was an uncommon sort of conflict, requiring uncommon qualities of its combatants. Ah, yes, another inner voice countered, and you were were chosen for your looks. chosen for your looks.

The carrier steadied, the Fasts.p.a.ce pressure stabilized, and he studied those looks in the thick curved gla.s.s of the porthole, where they were shaded by the gentle orange lighting. He remained tall and handsome, he decided, if marginally wider about the midriff than before, and he cut a splendid figure in the outfit - or rather the uniform, although he would never get used to calling it that - of a s.p.a.ce Admiral. Just as well, since he was the only one. Traces of ash grey streaked his hair, whose recession had added a certain dignified frame, unknown in his youth, to his simplistic, symmetrical features. Yes, a good face, suited to the job, even if the man who lived behind it, wasn't.

He unfastened his safety belt. His knees were knocking. To another human his discomfort would have been evident from such non-verbal signals.

Fortunately his companion was not human. But it cut the other way, too.

Dolne was unsure if General Jafrid, with whom he had shared this small but sumptuous lounge on many similar occasions, also suffered from fear of Fasts.p.a.ce. Somehow, he doubted it.

Jafrid was unbuckling his harness, customized into the carrier as a mark of courtesy, with typical Chelonian adroitness. The plastic straps slid from his big sh.e.l.l and he stretched his four external limbs to their fullest extent, the blunt claws on each one unfurling and furling. Then he turned his head towards Dolne on his long, wizened neck and said politely, 'Very smooth.'

His voice was low and rather gruff, a step away from a roar for all its civilised airs, and made the metal bulkheads of the lounge reverberate.

'Yes,' Dolne said, his head still reeling. 'I hardly noticed we'd gone into Fasts.p.a.ce at all.' A queasy feeling wrenched at his stomach, 'The years pa.s.s. One becomes accustomed.'

'One does,' Jafrid said. An odd gurgle escaped from somewhere deep in his vastness.

Dolne got up, walked to the drinks dispenser at the back of the lounge and dialled them tea. 'Any preference, Jaffers?' The nickname had come into use a while ago, and the Chelonian didn't seem to mind.

Jafrid considered a moment. 'Lapsang souchong, please.' He patted the side of his sh.e.l.l. 'It'll help to settle my digestive tracts.'

Dolne collected the tray provided by the machine and placed it on the aisle table. He watched as Jafrid shook the pot gently, saying, 'Ah, yes. Nothing better to clear the pipes. Your human drinks are very good, but you really ought to try some of ours. Curried whango is a real treat.'

Dolne smiled. 'I don't think it would be quite good for me.' They'd been over this ground many times, out of politeness. One ring of curried whango, in fact, would turn a human's tongue into a thin strip of scalded tissue, burn away his jaw and quite possibly induce a fatal heart seizure. As he spoke Jafrid tipped the pot and began to pour.

They drank in silence for a moment. Then Jafrid chuckled, took his com-pad from its moulded rest on the table and tapped in a code. 'Let's check the news. See how our work's been reported.'

'Badly, I expect,' said Dolne. 'As usual.' He turned to face the big screen that stretched over the length of the facing wall. 'The news media have no patience. No wish to convey the full complexity of our task.'

Jafrid nodded down in the general direction of Metralubit. 'You're right. To them it looks simple. They wouldn't be quite as quick with their advice if they realized the level of delicacy required.' He aimed the com-pad at the screen and pressed the transmit b.u.t.ton. The screen remained blank.

'Come on, come on, connect,' said Jafrid. He sighed. 'Pardon my rudeness, but your technology can be appallingly slow.'

'We have many different com-systems on Metralubit,' said Dolne. 'It can take a while for them to line up.'

Jafrid wagged his head. 'Your lot can never standardize anything.'

'Just the way we are,' said Dolne.

There was an uncomfortable silence. Dolne regarded Jafrid as a friend of the kind one mixes well with in a crowd. When there was only the two of them conversation was hard. They just didn't have enough in common.

The big screen stayed blank. Both of them made disapproving noises to cover the embarra.s.sing lapse.

The screen flickered at last. 'Ah, here we go,' said Jafrid.

A newsreader appeared, seated at her desk, framed from the waist up in the cla.s.sical, millennia-old tradition of public broadcasting, the emblem of the Metralubitan News Network embossed on the wall behind her. She was a Femdroid, and, Dolne thought, a cracking one, with silky blonde hair styled in an elegant mushroom about a sharp-featured yet still attractive face. She wore an immaculate pink suit with padded shoulders and spoke with the precision of all her kind. 'Good morning. Today's main story: the one hundred and twenty-fifth summit on the Barclow war has ended with no significant breakthroughs being made.'

'Ridiculous,' said Dolne. 'I made several, ah, fairly important concessions.'

'As did I,' said Jafrid.

The newsreader's voice continued over footage that showed them both seated at the ma.s.sive white circular conference table, surrounded by the staff of the Parliament Dome and administrating Femdroids. 'Late last night s.p.a.ce Admiral Dolne, for the Metralubitan military, and General Jafrid, for the Chelonian seventieth column, met in the conference chamber of the Parliament Dome for preliminary talks on the future of the Barclow colony.'

Jafrid growled. 'Barclow is no colony. A clear case of bias.'

'They are broadcasting to their own side,' Dolne pointed out. 'My side. And we do claim that Barclow is our colony.'

'Irrelevant,' snapped Jafrid. 'I shall lodge a complaint with the regulators.

The network is supposed to be impartial.' There was not more than a trace of anger in his voice. Dolne knew he was only saying what was expected of him.

'The summit was dissolved after only four hours when it became clear that the parties could not agree on the wording of the initial clause of the discussion doc.u.ment,' the newsreader went on. Dolne watched himself and Jafrid shaking appendages.

'What does she mean, "only"?' said Jafrid. 'Four hours isn't bad.'

Dolne laughed and drank his tea. 'Four very long hours.'

Jafrid pointed to a woman in a patterned skirt standing at Dolne's side on the screen. 'I must say your wife's looking well.'

'Thank you.' Dolne was genuinely pleased. 'Yes, she seems to have bounced back after her operation. That Femdroid medic did a great job. I'm glad you've noticed.'

The newsreader went on, 'The Premier gave this reaction to news of the summit's break-up.' Dolne groaned as Harmock's piggy form appeared. He was sitting at his desk in his study, any shelves of books behind him. 'The situation remains the same,' he said in his infuriatingly pompous way, 'and s.p.a.ce Admiral Dolne has my full confidence and my full support.'

'Silly a.r.s.e,' muttered Dolne.

'If the Chelonian hierarchy think they can shake our resolve with their quibbles, they are mistaken.' Harmlock raised a hand. 'I say to them -' he made a cutting gesture '- oh no. We are prepared to enter into full negotiations on Barclow, without preconditions. As soon as they accept our terms.' His jowls shook as he spoke. 'It is their stalling over minor technicalities that is preventing us all from taking further steps ahead on the road to peace.'

They heard the newsreader's voice off-screen. 'Premier, there have been suggestions that by imposing the terms you've just described you're robbing the Chelonians of any bargaining power and making it impossible for them to negotiate.'

Harmock gave the camera a pitying look. 'We hear a lot of that kind of rot nowadays, don't we? Well, I I'll tell you you something, shall I? Barclow is ours by right, our colony, and our protectorate. And until that is acknowledged by both sides there is no point in going any further.' something, shall I? Barclow is ours by right, our colony, and our protectorate. And until that is acknowledged by both sides there is no point in going any further.'

'Nevertheless, Premier, after a hundred and twenty five years, some are saying the Barclow war is a waste of everybody's time, and is being prolonged purely for party political reasons. It's claimed that neither you nor the Opposition can afford to stop the war officially as it would be an unpopular move with the public.'

Harmock reared up, as much as it was possible for him to rear. His chins wobbled. 'The situation on Barclow has absolutely no connection with party politics. To anybody who says so, let me say this. If we allow an alien power simply to walk in and take away what is rightfully ours, what kind of signal are we sending out? For all we know there could be hundreds of hostiles up in s.p.a.ce with an eye on us, and if we falter on Barclow it would be like giving a green light to any pa.s.sing invader.'

Dolne was embarra.s.sed. 'That terrible patronizing tone he takes...'

'Humans like being patronized,' said Jafrid. He giggled. 'Pardon me. It's the thought of all those hostile powers with designs on Metralubit.'

Dolne sat back in his seat. 'Feel free. I'll be glad to be rid of Harmock. And with any luck it'll be soon. He can't delay the election much longer.' He clapped his hands together and made a mock prayer. 'Nothing can go wrong this time, surely. He's got to lose - he's made such a mess of things.

He's just got got to.' to.'

'And will the other fellow do any better, I wonder?' mused Jafrid.

'What, Rabley?' Dolne considered. 'He can't make things wor - ah, talk of the devil.' He pointed to the screen, on which the face of the Opposition leader was, almost literally, glowing. He was every inch the opposite of Harmock: lean, with a wide (some said too wide) grin, and a dapper pale-green suit that fitted him perfectly, over which was a protective padded jacket. It did not appear incongruous, as he was surrounded not by the panelled dens of the Parliament Dome but by an ashen landscape both viewers knew only too well.

'As you can see,' he was saying, one arm thrown theatrically wide, 'the situation on Barclow is intolerable. Of course, there is no question, nor can there be, of us altering our position on its colony status, but there is another side to the matter.' He spoke quickly and freely with a casual emphasis and his smile never faltered. 'The war swallows an average of a billion credits per annum, and that's public money. What we in the Opposition are saying is that this is unacceptable and that our presence on Barclow should be downsized accordingly.'

'Your critics, Mr Rabley,' said the newsreader from the studio, 'would reply that by doing so you'd leave the door wide open to the enemy.'

He shook his head politely. 'No, no, no. What they're missing is that-'

Jafrid interrupted. 'I forgot he was staying with your lot.'

'Yes. Tour of inspection.' Dolne raised an eyebrow. 'Photo-opportunity, more like. They've all done it. Getting into a flak jacket goes down well with the voters.' He grinned, staring into the past. 'Even Harmock did it, once.

We had to hunt high and low for one to go around him.'

The broadcast was cut off and a crackle came from the internal speaker mounted above the big screen. 'Evening, gents,' said the pilot cheerily.

'Evening,' said his pa.s.sengers.

'Just thought I'd let you know, we'll be dropping out of Fasts.p.a.ce in thirty seconds,' he said. 'That's out of neutral territory and into Barclow's disputed zone,' he added, following procedure. 'Take it carefully, eh? Your pods are primed and ready to drop.'

'Fine, thank you,' called Dolne. Jafrid nodded his a.s.sent. Both reached for their safety straps and clipped the buckles about their middles. Hastily Dolne finished his tea and set down his cup. He licked his lips in preparation for the return.

Again, the dreadful violence, as if a hole was being punched through reality. Again, an attempt by his last meal to escape into day. And again, through the porthole, the shattering shock of seeing a planet popping into existence where before there had been only blackness. Dolne felt very differently about Barclow, though. Whereas Metralubit was pretty but too large and overpopulated, Barclow was ugly, small and almost uninhabited.

It had been generous of the astronomer who had discovered it to deem it a planetoid, as it was only 400 miles at its circ.u.mference, and even more generous for him to deem it habitable, as the equatorial strip with its life-supporting atmosphere covered only just over a tenth of that area. But for Dolne it felt like home, and the sight of its rainy skies and muddy grey mountains gave him a moment's jouissance jouissance that almost made up for the discomfort of the reverse transition. that almost made up for the discomfort of the reverse transition.

The ship steadied itself and then swooped down through Barclow's cloud cover. Droplets of moisture spattered across the porthole, and Dolne inhaled gratefully. It was as if he could already smell the patchy, iron-particle-thick air.

'There we are, chaps,' the pilot's voice crackled from the c.o.c.kpit. 'Now, I don't need to remind you, but I will anyway, we're in the SDZ. And I've received clearance from your command posts: you're clear to drop. So, good luck to you both and happy landings.'

'Thank you,' Dolne called as he unstrapped himself.

'Thank you,' said Jafrid, doing the same.

Dolne hated this bit. Keeping his gaze away from Jafrid he stood, brushed down his outfit (uniform, uniform! uniform! ), picked up his briefcase and his box of presents (he had something for every member of the Strat Team, picked up from the duty-free shop at the Parliament Dome's travel terminal) from beneath his seat and turned to face the door that led to his waiting pod. ), picked up his briefcase and his box of presents (he had something for every member of the Strat Team, picked up from the duty-free shop at the Parliament Dome's travel terminal) from beneath his seat and turned to face the door that led to his waiting pod.

Across the aisle, his manner also abruptly formal, Jafrid did much the same, although his doc.u.ment holder took the form of a slim silver disc containing sheafs of jagged edged paper.

They stood next to each other in silence, waiting for the lights above the pod bay doors to turn from red to green. Dolne tightened his grip on the briefcase and risked a second's glance over at Jafrid. His eyes met Jafrid's coming the other way. Swiftly they averted their gazes.

Oh well, thought Dolne, as the lights changed and the bay doors chunked open with a low hum. Better get it over with.

With affected casualness he put one of his hands in his right pocket, the side next to Jafrid. His figures curled around the oblong plastic phial. He readied himself. As always he felt extremely foolish. He lifted a foot to cross the threshold - - and converted the movement into a sudden, ungainly crouch, bringing out the phial and bowling it underarm in Jafrid's general direction. He saw it flash through the air, watched as it arced towards Jafrid's upper sh.e.l.l, the substance inside glistening greenly in the lounge's muted orange lighting.

He watched admiringly as one of Jafrid's front limbs came up to knock it aside. At the same time the Chelonian's enormous bulk hauled itself off the carpet on one side with a grinding of hidden hydraulics. The diverted phial spun off across the lounge and struck the big screen. It split with a crack and the acid bubbled out. Dolne felt ashamed as he watched the screen eaten away by the fizzing substance.

His attention was pulled back by Jafrid's response. His old Chelonian friend tipped his sh.e.l.l forward, and a long dagger slipped out into the same front limb that had knocked away the phial. Dolne's eyebrows shot up with delight. The dagger was beautiful, its hilt decorated with fiery alien stones, the blade not only barbed but also twisted along its length into a variety of different shapes. One section ended in a spiked ball, another a corkscrew with a glinting point.

Dolne was instantly curious, his acquisitive instincts aroused. He and his wife were great antiques collectors, and he was considering what sort of offer to make Jafrid when he remembered that the weapon was on its way to the general area of his heart and he had better do something about it.

He whipped up his briefcase in a reflex movement. Its strong metallic side absorbed the impact of the dagger, although Dolne nearly toppled over under the weight of Jafrid's a.s.sault.

He took a moment to steady himself and then pulled the case away. He and Jafrid, who pulled back the dagger with a grunt, shared a conspiratorial smile. (At least, Dolne had always a.s.sumed that Jafrid was smiling at this juncture.)

'Acid?' snorted Jafrid. 'Unsubtle.' He nodded towards the screen, which was now nothing but a charred and smoking wreck of sparking circuitry.

Dolne just knew he was going to make a dismissive remark. 'Wouldn't have done more than scar my sh.e.l.l.'