Pock was very tired. Things were obviously out of his control now. “I’m going to bed,” he said.

  “Fine,” said the colonel, and as soon as the governor was gone he drafted a reply to the rebels.

  Sixth Exchange

  From: Authority

  To: Traitors and Terrorists

  We are not afraid to die for the glorious empire. When we are dead, you shall be dealt with. For making the threat alone, you will be executed in the most ignominious manner possible. Carry out the threat, and we assure you that every telepath in the empire will pay the price.

  What, do they think the other telepaths have any kind of link with us?

  They assume it, Worthing told the new captain of the fleet. And why not?

  They’re afraid of people who can talk to each other so that no one else can hear. Don’t you remember? It’s not polite to whisper.

  We don’t have any fuel left.

  I suggest we surrender.

  We will burn Harper Moon.

  I will burn you first, Worthing said.

  Rage. The rage of eighteen other captains. We are together, they shouted in their minds. We are together against the enemy, not against each other. We must stick together.

  Then a pause.

  More reasoned thoughts. More careful thoughts.

  The last message. It was obviously written by someone else. Probably the military. It looks as though there has been either a policy or a personnel change.

  So the hell what? Whatever we do, we’re dead.

  So let’s surrender and at least they’ll make martyrs of us, Homer. suggested.

  Laughter. What is this? We didn’t sign on to be Jesus. We could have let them make us martyrs long ago.

  And Homer Worthing knew they were right. Martyrdom did nothing, really.

  Who would they be dying for? Who would rally to their cause? They were already as strong as any rebellion would ever be. When they died, all the lights would go out, and the empire would be free to use telepaths as tools, then cast them away at will, with impunity.

  And underlying all the mental conversation was the ever more powerful undertone of fear. Fear of death. Fear of failing. Fear that, in the end, they were helpless after all.

  The imperial fleet tried another sortie. This time there was no resistance.

  The rebels were entirely out of fuel. The imperials immediately attacked. At the end of the battle, even hampered as they were, the rebels had lost only seven ships to the nine lost by the imperial fleet. But the imperial fleet could afford losses. And now there were only twelve telepaths left, and they were lost. On the next battle, or the next, they would die.

  Seventh Exchange From: SWIP-e33

  To: Governor Pock

  If you have any humanity in you at all, governor, let us refuel and leave. All we want to do is leave settled space. We threaten no one. We harm no one.

  And in exchange for this we’re being murdered in your skies for lack of the one thing you can spare without any loss, a few million liters of your ocean.

  You are destroying us by your unwillingness to let us land. You are murdering us.

  From: Authority To: The traitors

  You are out of fuel. You will be destroyed in a matter of days. We regard it as a point of particular pride that we, a minor planetary system, will have been chiefly responsible for the empire’s glorious victory. Your begging is undignified. Surrender, and you may yet be spared.

  The second battle ended, and now only Homer Worthing and two other telepaths were alive.

  The panic and rage were getting control now. In any battlefield the death of a soldier’s comrades is agonizing, terrifying. The wounded scream, and the music of their dying is madness to all who hear. But fingers can be put in ears, minds can be closed, eyes can focus on the enemy ahead and the battle can go on.

  But what if the screams are silent? What if all the fear is played in every soldier’s mind, and then the pain, and then the terror of staring into blackness and seeing all too well what waits there?

  There is no hiding from the madness then.

  Homer Worthing sat before the clean, shining console that commanded the stars and told a great ship how to hurtle through space. But now the ship was helpless, alive but unable to move. And because he had come to think of the ship as an extension of himself, Homer felt that arms and legs had been amputated, that his eyes had been cut out. He tried to close his mind to his own terror and the terror of his friends. His own he could control; his friends were less cooperative.

  They’ve killed us, he kept thinking. They’ve killed us, and they sit safely on their planets gloating. They have murdered us and we have the power to destroy them, but we’ve withheld that power and for our mercy we are dying and we will get no thanks for it at all, no honor, no gratitude. In their inhumanity they take advantage of our humanity and because were decent and cannot murder innocent people in cold blood we can be murdered in our innocence.

  For a moment he wanted to press the three simple buttons that would release the mammoth fusion devices that would turn the three planets of Harper system into little suns. It would take five minutes, eight, and eleven for the three missiles to get within striking range of the three targets. Then, long before they were in any danger from planet-launched weapons, they would detonate, and the planets would be ended.

  But he made the mistake of picturing the ending in his mind. He thought of the woman baking bread for her husband coming home from the field, and how the bread would indeed bake, but would never be tasted. He thought of children in a schoolroom wrestling with a problem that, perhaps, one of them would suddenly understand, and that one would leap to his feet, would say, “I’ve got it,” and in that moment the understanding would be gone, and the grasping of the idea would have meant nothing.

  They knew he could not do it.

  He heard one of the others reach his own decision, saw the fusion devices launched. But he fired his own projectiles, which could do what planet-based weapons could not. He stopped the fusion devices in their flight, deflected them, cast them into the sun where their action would cause, perhaps, a solar flare and little more.

  His friend wept in rage and frustration and then the next attack came, and there was no meeting it, and Homer’s friends were both snuffed out almost instantly, and Homer knew a terrible moment as he saw the projectiles homing in on his own craft, projectiles he could not dodge. It would take four minutes for the first to arrive.

  During the first minute he thought frantically of his wife, who would be wakened from her somec and informed. He could hear her cry out with grief, and in his mind he reached out and held her and comforted her hut he knew, in fact, that there would be no comfort for her then.

  During the second minute he listened to the minds of the nearest imperial captains. Their thoughts were simple. Victory. Reward. Fame. I made it. That over and over again: I made it. I did it. I did it. Let it be my missile that strikes first. And Homer longed to shout (but they would never hear) are you heroes?

  What kind of heroes are you who can’t kill unless someone ties down the prey and disarms it and stretches out its neck for the knife?

  During the third minute he looked around the cockpit of the ship and wondered what he was doing there, what in the world he was doing in a starship two centuries away from his home on Capitol and why hadn’t he stayed there and kept his damned gift a secret and not joined the Service at all, where they could teach him to enhance his gift, teach him to be a pilot, teach him to win victories for the empire, and then, when suddenly it became an embarrassment to be breaking the Convention by using telepaths, cast him off, execute him as they had done the first dozen telepathic pilots who had home to port, declare him a traitor for having served them so well.

  In his mind he undid it and lived a complete life as the scientist he had thought he wanted to be back home, with several children and much honor and many friends but then he looked at the console and the computer told him he had a minute to go and the alarms rang loudly and his ears insisting that he DO SOMETHING NOW but there was nothing that he could do because he couldn’t even turn the ship.

  During the fourth minute, at the beginning of it, he cast his attention randomly toward Harper, the nearest of the three planets, randomly sorted a mind, randomly listened, randomly sought for what the common man on Harper was thinking of all this and hoping that in the man’s mind there was some thought that would make the battle and the death stand for something, be worthwhile somehow.

  The mind he found was that of an engineer who was leaning back in his chair wondering what in the world he could do about his mistress, who was also the boss’s secretary, and who was now threatening to get revenge for his infidelity to her by telling the boss who it was who really designed the Hadgate bridge.

  Can I, wondered the engineer, soothe this over by getting her to bed again?

  She has no self-control in bed. And the engineer reached for a book.

  Homer could not bear it. Bad enough to know that the military was gloating.

  Bad enough to hear the death agonies of his friends. But to know that an intelligent, responsible human being did not give a damn that not far above his head twenty good men had died for daring to want to resist the empire’s attempt to murder them, that was unbearable. That was tho ultimate wound that they could cause Homer Worthing, and he screamed, “You’re killing me, you bastard!” and his fingers launched the fusion devices. A moment later he changed his mind. A moment later his reason returned and he knew he could never commit such murder. But as his fingers reached for the controls that would abort the fusion devices, the first enemy projectile reached his ship, and he died in fire.

  The three fusion devices went their way.

  The imperial fleet was not prepared for this. It was so unthinkable, to use those weapons against a planet when their purpose was merely to destroy a ship without hitting it directly, so unthinkable to commit such an atrocity, that they were utterly unprepared and even though they fired the intercepting projectiles, they were not quick enough. One of them intercepted the device heading for Harper Moon. But that was not enough.

  Stoddard went first, the planet visibly rocking under the shock of having a tenth of its surface instantly converted into an inferno of corrupting atoms breaking down into their constituent parts. After a moment, the reaction spread throughout the planet’s core, and it simultaneously exploded and collapsed in a reaction not particularly different from a star, though there was not enough matter to provide enough energy to sustain the reaction, and after only a few seconds of being a star the matter collapsed into a hot, glowing ball of fairly well-mixed elements.

  The Stoddard reaction was over before the projectile reached Harper. The performance was repeated, with the addition of a tongue of fire reaching out to lick all the way around Harper Moon. Harper Moon did not explode. But every living thing on its surface died, and the ocean leaped into the atmosphere and then collapsed again, washing away all soil, all hints that anything other than water and rock had ever existed on the surface of the world.

  And then all was still.

  The captain of the imperial fleet looked at the starfinder’s graphic portrayal of what the ship’s instruments had seen. In dozens of other ships, other captains were doing the same: they knew the horror felt by those who, millennia before, had walked into death camps and seen stacks of corpses and soldiers casually murdering civilians and piles of gold teeth and false teeth and a lampshade made of human skin. Only in this case eight billion people had died.

  And they were ready to carry the word back to the empire: that the telepaths, the Swipes, had committed an atrocity beside which all other cruelties of humanity in the past became negligible.

  The empire would rock with the news, and mobs would hunt down known telepaths and tear them apart in vengeance for the vast crime their kind had committed. Almost a hundred thousand telepaths would die.

  But for a brief moment, sitting in front of his starfinder, Captain Fil Treece of the imperial fleet could not figure out why anybody’s life should have been any more valuable than Homer Worthing’s, and why the murder of one person should be good policy, while the murder of eight billion should be an inhuman crime.

  Instead, he remembered a practical joke he and Homer Worthing had played on a professor in pilot school. They had programmed the class battle computer to respond incorrectly to any program that would result in death or damage to any ship. For three hours the professor tried to force the computer to carry out battle instructions, but it would not. Finally the professor realized that the mistakes were not in his program, and he turned to Homer and Fil (since practical jokes usually originated in their little circle of friends) and said, “May every ship you pilot have a computer that acts like this.”

  At the time it had been a sobering thought, almost a wish for their certain deaths.

  But now, Fil thought, I wish to God it had come true.

  He led his fleet from the dead star system and soon they were passing light as if it were standing still. On the way back toward Capitol, their ships woke them from their somec sleep, an enemy colony ship was heading past them toward a distant star system. According to standing orders, the fleet dispersed: three ships blasted the colony ship out of the sky along with all three hundred or so sleeping passengers aboard the unarmed craft, while the rest of the fleet continued toward Capitol.

  And back on Capitol they gave Fil and his fleet medals for having killed the rebels and citations for having destroyed the enemy colonists.

  “But I never meant to kill anybody,” Fil said to the official who had guided him through the ceremony.

  “Shut up,” the official responded quietly. “Everybody says that. But you bastards take the medals just the sqme.”

  “I hope a raise in salary goes along with it,” Fil said. And it did, allowing him to purchase a permanent apartment on Capitol, much to his wife’s pleasure.

  She decorated it in ancient Chinese style, and every time he was in port they drank tea together and made love afterward on a mat on the floor and Fil was as happy as a person can reasonably expect to be.

  And the people of the empire, learning of the terrible crime of the fleet, murdered almost a hundred thousand known or suspected or (at least) accused telepaths. Almost everyone agreed it was just. After all, hadn’t the telepaths committed an atrocity?

  And What Will We Do Tomorrow?

  GLENDOWER: I can call spirits from the vasty deep.

  HOTSPUR: Why, so can I, or so can any man; but will they come when you do call for them?

  —Henry IV part I, 3:1

  Of all the people on Capitol, only Mother was allowed to awaken on her own bed, the bed where she had slept with Selvock Gray before his death eight hundred years ago. She did not know that the original bed had fallen apart centuries ago; it was always remade, right down to the nicks and scratches, so that she could awaken on it and lie there for a moment in solitude, remembering.

  No attendants murmuring. No flush of fever. Of all the people in Capitol, only Mother was given the delicate combination of drugs that made waking a delight, that cost more for each of her wakings than the entire budget of a colony ship.

  And so she luxuriated in the bed, cool and not feeling particularly old. How old am I? she wondered, and decided that she was probably forty. I am probably middle-aged, she said, and spread out her legs until they touched both sides of the bed.

  She ran her hands over her naked stomach, finding it not as flat and firm as it had been when Selvock had come to visit Jerry Crove and had, as an afterthought, seduced his fifteen-year-old granddaughter. But who had seduced whom? Selvock never knew it, but Mother had chosen him as the man most likely to accomplish what her grandfather was too good and her father too weak to accomplish, the conquest and unification of the human race.

  It was my dream, she mid to herself. My dream, that I needed Selvock to fulfil. He bloodied himself in a dozen planetside wars, sent fleets here and there at his command, but it was I who made the plans, I who set the wheels in motion, I who fired the starships and sent them on their way. I found the money by bribing, blackmailing, and assassination.

  And then, on the day Selvock was confident of victory, that bastard Russian had shot him with (of all things!) a pistol and Mother was alone.

  She lay naked on the bed, remembering the feel of his hand on her flesh, the tense, gentle hand, and she missed him. She missed him, but hadn’t needed him after all. For now she ruled the human universe, and there was nothing she wanted that she could not have.

  Dent Harbock sat in the control room, watching the monitor. Mother was playing with herself on the bed. If the people could only see a holo of this show! he thought. There’d be a revolution within the hour.

  Or maybe not. Maybe they really did think of her as, what had Nab called her? —an earth mother, a figure of fertility. If she was so fertile, how come no children?

  Nab walked into the control room. “How’s the old bitch doing?”

  “Dreaming of conquest. How come she never had any children?”

  “If you believe in a god, thank it for that. As it is, things are comfortable. The only royalty in the universe is a middle-aged woman we only have to wake up one day in every five years. No family squabbles. No war of succession. And nobody trying to tell the government what to do.”

  Dent laughed.

  “Better start the music. We have a busy schedule.”

  The music started and Mother was startled into alertness. Ah, yes. It was time. Being empress wasn’t all luxury and pleasant memories. It was also responsibility. There was work to be done.

  I’m lazy, now that I’m at the pinnacle of power, she said to herself. But I must keep the wheels turning. I must know what is going on.

  She got up and dressed in the simple tunic she had always worn.

  “Is she really going to wear that?”

  “It was the style when she ruled actively. A lot of heavy sleepers do that, it keeps a touch of familiarity around them.”