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II. The Chiefs

 

1

Arakal, King of the Wesdem O'Cracys, was in the Plot Room, bent over a model of the territory that once had been the eastern United States. The contoured surface showed rivers, lakes, and oceans in blue; forests in shades of green; and stretches of cultivated land in brown; with light gray for mountaintops, and pale yellow for large towns and cities. The carefully detailed surface was mostly green, with little yellow anywhere. Arakal was now examining a branching narrow black line with tiny crossbars which threaded its way from the northern border southward.

"The southern end of the iron road—Where is it now?"

Beside him, Buffon, the white-haired chief of the Special Operations Staff, said, "Still at Thomasville, sir. Before they go down into the Peninsula, they want to look over the ground."

"Swamp?"

"Yes, and a certain amount of lingering radioactivity."

Arakal nodded, and straightened. Absently, he adjusted the belt and shoulder strap that held his sword, and his left hand felt warily for the twin-headed, sharp-beaked bird that long had adorned the sword hilt. His groping fingers felt a new hilt designed to fit his hand as the weapon's blade fit the need to cut or pierce.

Arakal was reminded of other improvements since the last campaign against the Russ. He glanced at the model, noting the more numerous blue markers that represented the country's militia, and the large tan markers, bearing Roman numerals from I to IX, that stood for the reinforced divisions of his army, concentrated now in the nest of bays, rivers, and inlets that was the former Russ Maryland-Delaware Colony.

Arakal noted improvements, and also something that remained the same—the overlapping dull gray disks along the model's western edge, that blotted out the blue and green and brown as if the land there had been transformed into the hammered face of the moon.

Just then, a sergeant stepped over, carrying a slip of paper.

"Pardon, sir. New positions for the fleet."

Not far out on the dark-blue surface that represented the ocean, the sergeant moved tiny markers closer, along with a small symbol in white and blue and red—the Old Flag that now flew again from the Slagged Lands of the West to the Atlantic, from the Florida Peninsula to Kebeck and New Brunswick in the north.

As the sergeant left, Arakal glanced again at the gray western border.

"Any news from our expeditions?"

"Not yet, sir," said Buffon. "But settlers trickle in who haven't been able to find a way through."

"Any recently?"

"A hunter, yesterday. His party gave up five or six weeks ago. Last week they made it out to the iron road. While the rest went on south, he came in to collect the bounty for their records."

"Where did they try to get through?"

"West of the Ohio Territory, where we'd heard rumors of a corridor just south of the lake. He said it was even worse there than further south."

"You talked to him yourself?"

"Yes, sir. He seemed reliable."

"Well—It makes sense. The old maps show good-sized cities there. Cities that size nearly always got plastered."

Buffon nodded regretfully.

Arakal considered the model, and shook his head.

"Sooner or later, the Russ will recover from our last fight. Meanwhile, they'll build a bigger fleet. Then they'll be back over here. Unless we can develop our strength, there's no reason why they shouldn't finish with us what they started with the Old O'Cracys."

"At least there are limits, sir. From questioning their men, it seems clear that while they have a good deal of Old Stuff from before the war, it doesn't include the kinds of usable long-range rocket-bombs that did all this damage."

"Even without them," said Arakal, "they have the wherewithal to either beat us, or keep us endlessly fighting off invasions. We can't rely on their making the mistakes they made the last time."

Buffon began to speak, hesitated, and glanced at the small symbols of ships that the sergeant had moved closer to the mainland. "Well, we'll know more soon enough, when Bullinger gets back."

Arakal nodded. He glanced around the Plot Room, noting the roughly dressed engineers and road builders examining freshly prepared contour maps and, across the room, three of his generals bent intently over a large-scale model of the Maryland-Delaware Peninsula. Not far from where Arakal and Buffon stood, intent artisans in paint-spotted overalls were putting the finishing touches on a large model of Western Europe. Arakal thoughtfully considered this new model.

Buffon followed the direction of Arakal's gaze, and looked troubled. "Sir, we might forestall the Russ. But it would be very risky."

"If," said Arakal, "we can't open up a way to the West—"

"You're thinking that, as things stand, we don't have the potential strength the country had before the war?"

Arakal nodded bleakly. "If we can't get through to the West, we'll take things in a different order. But it would be better to recover first what the O'Cracys held on this continent."

Buffon hesitated, then frowning, began to speak. Then with a look of relief, he glanced around at the interrupting sharp rap of approaching heels. He looked up as a young lieutenant, the silver disc of Communications at his lapel, came hurrying across the room to Arakal.

"Sir, a message just in from Mr. Colputt."

"Good." Arakal reached for the folded paper.

 

2

At the moment that the message was delivered to Arakal, far away around the curve of the Earth, the high official spoken of respectfully as "S-One" stood at his office window, looking into an enclosed courtyard. His face bore a look of deep contentment as he drank in the courtyard's blaze of red and yellow and violet. With a connoisseur's interest, he noted that certain shades of color, seen against dark-green leaves, looked almost fluorescent.

Smiling, he glanced up at the braced overhead structure of steel and glass, partly opened now in early summer, that gave the flowers a head start despite the temperatures that afflicted this part of the world.

His spirit refreshed, S-One turned away, sat down, and glanced at the thick bound stack of typed pages that lay open on the polished walnut surface of his desk. His chiseled features grew set, and his gray eyes acquired a remote considering look as he picked up the report.

His gaze rose to the opposite wall, with its map-like display of the North American continent, its center marked from the Great Lakes to the Gulf of Mexico in overlapping disks of dull gray, its west and east coast regions marked in scattered gray disks overlapped with green, blue, or brown.

Centered on the west coast region was a small symbol—a hammer and sickle within a white star on a blue disk.

S-One frowned at the flag, then opened his thick sheaf of papers, the edge darkened from much handling, to read:

". . . true insight into their motivations is problematical, as we have as yet no reliable source within the controlling group. We are forced to rely largely on electronic methods, which can be grossly misleading, because of:

1) Poor coverage.

2) Changes of plan. Sudden reversals by Arakal, Slagiron, Colputt, and other leading personages of the present quasi U.S. Government are common.

3) Secretiveness. The present quasi U.S. Government is, in its essentials, an absolute monarchy. In such a government, the true intention may be known only to the monarch.

The effect of such factors is to very seriously hamper our planning. . . ."

S-One shook his head in irritation. He put a hand on the edge of his desk, pulled out a slide inset with numbered pearl-colored push-buttons, and with the ease of long familiarity selected a button well up in the right-hand column.

Across the room, the display lit up to show nine small numbered markers, representing Arakal's army, clustered in the former Maryland-Delaware Colony. The locations of two of these markers differed slightly from their positions on Arakal's Plot. Off the shore, tiny symbols represented Arakal's ships, with no perceptible difference between their location on S-One's display or Arakal's Plot.

S-One glanced at his clock, shoved in the slide with its rows of buttons, and picked up the interoffice phone.

"General Brusilov is here?"

"Yes, sir. He arrived exactly on time."

"Send him in."

The door opened, and a broad bear of a man came in, his expression wary, but his jaw out-thrust.

S-One came to his feet, stepped around the right side of his desk, and held out his hand.

General Brusilov, surprised, gripped the proffered hand.

S-One said gravely, "Please seat yourself, General. I appreciate your punctuality."

Brusilov spoke gruffly. "I believe in being on time, even for my own execution."

S-One sat down. "We are all, in one way or another, 'executed' eventually. In my job, I must sometimes accelerate the date of such executions. That is not so in your case. There are three reasons why your only punishment will be the loss of one day's pay."

Brusilov blinked in surprise.

"The first reason," said S-One, "is the testimony of the former Soviet plenipotentiary, Smirnov. Smirnov returned to us in a state of shock. He took the entire blame for the American disaster on himself. His testimony exonerates you completely.

"The second reason is that you came back to us voluntarily.

"The third reason is the statement of Smirnov that you were friends with the present U.S. leader, Arakal. Is this correct?"

Brusilov gazed briefly out at the flowers, then turned to look S-One in the eyes.

"Arakal, and his officers and men, were nearly always friendly. Not only to me, but to most of my officers and men. That is," Brusilov added dryly, "between fights."

"After you had fought with them, they were still friendly?"

"On all occasions, except in our attack through New England toward Quebec Fortress. Brutal methods were used in that attack. The ill feeling was relieved only by blood."

"They were usually friendly. Yet they fought?"

"They fought like wildcats."

"But afterward, they were friendly?"

"Yes."

"Do you understand their reason?"

Brusilov hesitated, then shook his head.

"How can I be certain? Their reasons seem to me to be questions of temperament, of Arakal's calculation, and of historical policy."

S-One sat back, frowning. He picked up the thick report lying on his desk.

"Take a look at the size of this. Weigh it in your hand. This is an exhaustive strictly secret critique of the U.S.A. as we now see it. But is it right? Are we intellectualizing our opponent's whims or reflexes? You know them."

Brusilov thoughtfully weighed the report in his hand, shook his head, and passed it back to S-One.

S-One said, "Why do you suggest 'historical policy'?"

Brusilov shrugged. "They are Americans, Comrade."

" 'Quasi-Americans' in the words of that paper. That is, they live where the Americans died."

"And are descended from them."

"Perhaps I am descended from a Tatar tribesman. Does that mean I am one?"

Brusilov's right hand, resting on the arm of his chair, lifted, palm out.

"There is a difference between a Frenchman and a Finn. The Poles are one thing, and the English another. The Americans are something else again."

"For the sake of argument, not to correct you, I say that the Americans were something else again."

Brusilov's voice was respectful, and his expression very serious.

"They were. And they are again."

"You regard this Arakal—this King of the O'Cracys—as an American?"

"He is an American, and so is his chief general, Slagiron, and so are all the rest. And it was the historical policy of the Americans, in their own view of things, to bind up the wounds of the suffering, attack tyranny, shoot pirates, twist the lion's tail, and spit in the eyes of those in authority. In a fight, the Americans, Comrade, love to spring a nasty trick on you, and then afterward they clap you on the back. There are no hard feelings, finally."

S-One gestured to the display on the wall behind Brusilov.

"The people you speak of sound like giants. Observe the gray area in the heartland of their country, after some specimen of which, perhaps, your friend Slagiron is named. The only real Americans, if there are any left, are on the West Coast. These East Coast people are tribesmen."

Brusilov looked at the map, and nodded absently. His voice was polite, but without hesitation.

"Comrade, the son of a cat is a cat, the son of a Russian is a Russian, and the son of an American is an American. I grant you, as a nation they have had their hat pulled down over their eyes, and they have been chucked under the chin with a sledgehammer. They have also had their ribs smashed. They are crippled, as a nation, just as we are perhaps not quite so vigorous, as a nation, as we were once. But we are both still the same people. I say this not to be argumentative, but because I have spoken with them, and fought with them, and they are not English, French, Canadian, Chinese, or anything else, but Americans. Their ancestors may have been foolish. I do not say they are giants. I say simply that Arakal, Slagiron, and the others are Americans. And they do certain things because it is the historical policy of Americans to do these things. The Americans unload forty tons of bombs on you, then they offer your children chewing gum, and make you a loan. These are the Americans all over again. But there is, I admit, a difference."

"What is this difference, then?"

"Now they have the recent experience of a terrible near-total defeat. And, too, they have Arakal."

S-One frowned. "You say Arakal's calculation has to do with their attitude?"

"Yes."

"What does this king of the Americans—"

"That is an error."

S-One blinked. His face, which had been friendly, was suddenly expressionless.

Brusilov said, his voice courteous but somehow flat, "Arakal's title is 'king'. But it is not what we mean when we say 'king'. A better word might be 'chief', but that is not right, either. There is the word, 'boss'—the person who runs things, who decides how things are to be done. There is no trace of divine right in this title of 'king'. The office is elective."

S-One glanced at the thick report, then at Brusilov.

"Elective?"

"He told me so, himself. Certain things they have had passed down to them from the survivors of our attack. Arakal is the boss, the chief—Where this word 'king' comes from, who knows? Their present civilization grew up in the ruins of their former civilization. They used what pieces they could find, and that word, perhaps, was all that was ready to hand at the time."

"Then to call their government an absolute monarchy is an error?"

Brusilov thought a moment.

"Call if an elective absolute monarchy governing through a nonhereditary oligarchy. The closest thing I can think of is some form of republic; but I am not sure that is right, either. Frankly, I don't know what it is. But I know it works. I have seen it work."

S-One exasperatedly looked at the report, then out into the garden, and rested his eyes on the glorious colors. After a moment, he turned back to Brusilov.

"How does Arakal calculate this policy of friendship?"

"It is a calculation, I think, that shows him there is no gain in the pointless multiplication or intensification of enmities. With him we have, not festering enmity, but friendship interrupted by conflict. Friendship is what he appears to aim at, by courteous behavior and strictly fair treatment. Of course, friends may fight, because of opposing beliefs or desires. He wants to recover the Land of the O'Cracys. We claimed control of all of it. There is the basis for as much conflict as anyone might wish."

S-One smiled at the expression, "the Land of the O'Cracys."

Brusilov shook his head.

"Do not think that they are foolish because we cannot correctly translate their tongue. The meaning of that expression, 'the Land of the O'Cracy' is emotional: 'the powers, insight, and territory which once were ours.'"

"World dominion?"

"Their idea is simply to free North America, plus England and France."

"Not Germany?"

"They have lost the awareness that West Germany was an ally."

"You mentioned one other factor—temperament."

"That can be explained in a few words: They are friendly."

S-One stared for a moment, then sat back, frowning.

"So, what we are up against is a people heavily armed, friendly, risen out of nuclear disaster, led by an elective absolute monarch ruling through a nonhereditary oligarchy, and whose policy is to courteously smash the opposition, and then nurse the survivors back to health? How do we contend with a thing like that? Is that, at least, the total of it?"

Brusilov stolidly shook his head.

"That is true, as far as it goes. But there is still another factor."

S-One regarded Brusilov with no great warmth.

Brusilov said, a trace of stubbornness in his manner, "It is the temperament of Arakal and his people that they, in general, like us. As Arakal said, approving of our colonists, 'They are good workers.' I heard such comments, myself."

S-One spoke seriously, "I appreciate all such first-hand information. We have had little enough of it. Go ahead."

Brusilov said, "It is historical policy with the Americans to accept—even to invite—immigration. They did not attack our colonists, as nearly any other people would have done. Instead, they moved in by surprise, in force, with no bombardment, and explained in a friendly way that the land the colony was on belongs to the O'Cracys, but that our people could become O'Cracys, and keep everything they had, and the only difference would be that the colonists would no longer have to take orders from us. That block of colonists moved from our side to their side with scarcely a sign of complaint."

S-One said exasperatedly, "There is the language problem. How will they solve that?"

"There is much trade between Arakal's own people and our former colonists. They have a school system now, with many small schools. Perhaps they will teach English in the colonists' schools, who knows?"

"This will cause trouble."

"Comrade, there is a noticeable tendency, with Arakal, for things to not work out as you expect."

S-One nodded moodily.

"In any case, what we have, then, is an elective monarchy governing through a non-hereditary oligarchy. The monarch is tactically shrewd. Monarch and people are descended from the East Coast survivors who lived through our nuclear bombardment. They have certain characteristic past American traits, including friendliness and a readiness to accept deserving outsiders as new Americans. They also, while fighting our troops in their own territory, have succeeded in gaining several victories, including one very damaging success, which won them all that remained of our seagoing fleet." S-One looked at Brusilov. "Is that correct?"

Brusilov considered it.

"It is largely correct, as far as it goes, but it contains one element of serious error. There is a condescension toward Arakal and his men which is characteristic of all of us, until we have felt their blows. You say he is 'tactically shrewd'. The word 'tactically' denies him status in the spheres of strategy and high policy. That is an error. Arakal is, in my opinion, a great master of conflict, alike in policy, strategy, tactics, and perhaps also in personal combat. One element of his strength is our condescension. In my opinion, he is not our inferior, but very possibly our superior."

S-One looked at Brusilov without expression, and Brusilov looked back with a stubborn yet not disrespectful expression. Finally, S-One gave a grunt, and sat back.

"You are outspoken, General."

"Even unpleasant truths may be serviceable. Lies break under strain."

"Is it true, as Smirnov said, that you regard Arakal as 'a master in the realm of ideas'?"

"As a master of conflict even in the realm of ideas. Yes."

"Do you feel," said S-One, his voice even and smooth, "that our ideology is subject to overthrow by Arakal's superior understanding?"

Brusilov frowned. S-One sat absolutely still, studying the general intently. Finally Brusilov cleared his throat, and looked directly into S-One's eyes.

"I am a military man, Comrade, not a political expert. But I will give you the best answer I know how to give. First, your question seems to presuppose knowledge of a conversation between Arakal, me, and Arakal's chief general, Slagiron. If you have knowledge of that conversation, you will understand that my personal opinion of ideology is low. I fear its teeth—the power of enforcement of those who are devoted to it—but I have a low opinion of ideology itself. It seems to me that first one side, then another, embodies its beliefs in a set ideology, which gains or loses power, depending on the force at the disposal of its followers, and on the shrewdness with which that force is used. As Arakal said, 'Ideology counts. But usually when it counts, it does the counting with a sword.' Considering the force at our disposal, no, I don't think Arakal can overthrow our ideology."

"Does he wish to overthrow it?"

"He wants to recover the lands of the O'Cracys. I don't think he wants to overthrow our ideology."

S-One said, "Can we overthrow him?"

"I don't think so. He is too strong at home."

S-One leaned forward, his gaze focused intently on Brusilov.

"And what if Arakal comes over here?"

Brusilov nodded slowly, almost sadly, then suddenly he laughed. "Yes, if Arakal comes over here, we well might beat him."

"Why do you laugh?"

Brusilov shook his head. "Comrade, how do I explain? A boy might laugh at the thought of a red-hot rivet dropped down the neck of an octopus. It is the thought of two such contenders coming together."

S-One nodded, and settled back. He looked at Brusilov and smiled.

"Well, he is coming. I am sure of that. And it is, I think, the opportunity of a lifetime. Do you agree?"

Brusilov nodded, and now his expression was somber and foreboding.

 

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