Читать книгу The Alien's Secret Volume 1 - Robert M. Doroghazi - Страница 6

When Blanck finished, the Chairman said, “After considering what we hope are all possibilities, we’ve concluded that in this minimal amount of time available, there are only three viable options worth pursuing to stop Rennedee.”

Rommeler acknowledged the man seated to his right. “General, please summarize our two military options for the Committee.”

As Rommeler sat down, the general rose to speak. Looking at the chairman, he said, “Thank you, Sir.” Continuing his penetrating gaze around the room, “Ladies and Gentlemen.”

General Tsav Raton held the Suppay Chair, or lead position, of the general staff, and with it was the military’s representative on the Committee of Ten. Just a glance at Raton was enough for anyone to know they were in the presence of a man who meant business, who when he gave an order it was meant to be obeyed. Raton held every major award bestowed by the Orian military but wore none of them on even his full-dress uniform—he didn’t need to. As soon as someone walked into a room they knew who was the leader, who was in command.

Raton had the insight—it wasn’t a gift, it was learned from trial and error, experience and observation—of what separated the warriors, even the greatest captains, from the soldier-statesman: he could accept the frustration that in politics, unlike the military, you can’t just order people around.

No one outside his immediate family called Raton by his first name: to everyone he was “General.” Yet he never lost the common touch. One of the most famous pictures of Raton from the Bolldog magazine shows him trimming his fingernails with his pocket knife.

He exercised daily, and although in his early nineties, late middle age on Oria, younger men had difficulty keeping up with him. Raton wore a short-sleeve shirt that fit his shoulders, chest and abdomen closely, highlighting his muscular frame. But those forearms: the slightest movement of his fingers, even just picking up a piece of paper, caused the ripple of muscles most men didn’t even know they had—because they didn’t. His arms were also more hairy than most. On some men it would be a little much, but on Raton it just made the muscles look more powerful. The only analogy in the galaxy, probably in the history of the entire Universe, would be a twenty-five year old Mickey Mantle, batting left handed, who had just rolled his wrists to send another ball rocketing into the upper deck of Yankee Stadium. Even Popeye would be jealous.

Raton’s speech was articulate and precise; not fast, not slow, and with no pauses; no “uhs,” no “like,” no “you know.” He was always in control. The general prided himself on knowing every detail; he overlooked nothing. As always, he was meticulously prepared, speaking without notes. “Our two military options will be implemented simultaneously. The first is to step up the fighting here on Oria, to defeat the revolutionaries before Rennedee can return with the nuclear weapons. As recently as last week, we were confident we could successfully end the conflict within six to eight weeks. But if we could step up the fighting, bringing all of our resources to bear, we could possibly defeat them before Rennedee could return.

“However,” Raton noted with a hint of concern, “within just the last few days we’ve noticed a tremendous increase in the intensity of fighting. The revolutionaries have become absolutely tenacious; they will not retreat even a centimeter. Yesterday a battalion of our men engaged a much smaller force outside the resort city of Paytan-Lavowel. From the outset, our numerical superiority and tactical position were obvious to both sides. There were several times they could have made an orderly retreat and saved their men. Several times we asked for their surrender. Not only was our request rejected out of hand, but the rebels were berating, insulting, and cursed profusely. They chose to stand and fight from an obviously hopeless position. When the rebels ran out of ammunition, they used stones and clubs. One of our men had several fingers bitten off. The revolutionaries died to the last man.

“We have never seen fighting like this before. Never. I’ve seen people die for their way of life, their homes, their families, but never quite like this; it is beyond maniacal. They’re not suicidal; they are not sacrificing themselves. There is no retreat, no surrender, no capture. They just fight. It’s as if they consider their lives worthless but at the same time priceless. They fight more like gevaudans than men.”

The gevaudan is a sentient wolverine-like animal larger than a black bear. It can walk on two legs but runs on all four. They are faster than a horse and strike quicker than an upset, three meter long king cobra. Its stiletto-sharp claws can slice open a man’s belly in one swipe. Their teeth and jaws can crush a man’s head and its skull is so strong that it can withstand the blow of a sledgehammer. A small-caliber bullet can’t penetrate its fur. Gevaudans are generally solitary animals, but when attacked by outsiders, will fight in packs. They are known as the most ferocious animal in the Universe. The gulleys and ravines of their heavily-wooded planet make any large-scale operations by conventional military forces impossible. No beings have ever conquered their planet.

A gevaudan’s fur is considered the premier big-game trophy in the galaxy. There is a persistent folklore—or it could be fact—that gevaudans feel the same about man.

Unknown to the Orian military was that the day before he left for Earth, Rennedee had made an “example” of two soldiers who had escaped a skirmish that claimed the lives of their comrades. The soldiers were to receive an “honor” for their heroism and bravery at a meeting in the town square, attended by their families, friends and compatriots. But as they stood on the stage in their uniforms, beaming with pride for their valor, metal spikes exploded up through the wooden floor to impale them. Shrapnel, wooden splinters the size of tent pegs, injured another score among the crowd. One soldier, the lucky one as they said later, died instantly with a spike through his heart and his head. The other poor young man suffered for almost five agonizing minutes, screaming the names of his wife and children, imploring them—anyone—to save him as he slowly exsanguinated. As the horror of the crowd died down, Rennedee announced, “This will be the fate of all cowards, of anyone unwilling to fight to the death for our cause.”

“We will bring all of our resources to bear,” said the general. “All leaves have been canceled, and we are recalling all units within two weeks’ travel of Oria. During this time, we are potentially vulnerable to an outside attack,” and then quickly added, “but the situation here is acute. We are re-distributing our forces along the frontier, and in exchange for future considerations we have received a pledge of support from the Septadians (the ‘Seven Fingers,’ the most powerful society in the galaxy) should we be attacked by the Grog or some other aggressor. But whatever Rennedee has done to energize his men will make it unlikely we can defeat the rebels here within the two to three weeks time. By then Rennedee could return from Earth with the nuclear weapons.”

During Rennedee’s trip to Earth, the revolutionaries were under the command of Cossette Epial-Tese Rodomontade. Whether you liked him, tolerated him, disliked him, couldn’t stand him, hated him, or really, viscerally despised him so much that just thinking about him made you want to hurl, no one could deny that he was a piece of work. He was short and fat with almost no neck, his head just sitting there on top of his shoulders, as if held on by no more than Velcro® or bobby pins. His eyes were the most bug-eyes you ever saw, the left a little more buggy than the right. He also had an unfortunate medical condition with a long name, but was commonly called “the gleets,” that made his skin feel greasy and oily, almost like a frog. His large tongue looked like a piece of raw liver and protruded out from between his lips and teeth even when his mouth was closed. It was impossible to look and him and not think of an over-sized, butt-ugly toad, with that tongue ready to shoot out to grab a cockroach for its next meal.

Rodomontade considered himself to be a ladies’ man and flirted constantly. Unfortunately, his dreadful appearance was exceeded only by his lack of insight. He had little talent and no morals and owed his position as the number two man to his constant flattery of and unquestioned loyalty to Rennedee.

One of Rodomontade’s typical suck-ups to Rennedee was, “It continues to amaze me how you think of all these things, Your Excellency. How can they unjustly deny you the power you have deserved for so long? I know you will win. The people love you.” Rennedee ate it up. Sometimes it wasn’t clear who was manipulating whom.

When not in Rennedee’s presence, his sycophant ways were replaced by constant berating, and verbal and even sometimes physical abuse of those under him. There was incessant boasting about his importance, the power, land, and wealth he would have when the rebels were victorious, and his ultimate place in history. After he had a little too much to drink, which was almost every day, he would say, “No one tells the truth. No one! Rommeler’s like all politicians; he’s a damn liar, and everybody knows it. Honesty’s for chumps. If you really want to get ahead, just stick with me.”

He was typical of the scum that crawl out from underneath their rock during periods of anarchy for their time in the sun.

To ensure there was no loss of discipline and control while he was gone, Rennedee ordered Rodomontade to arrest fifty people—men, women and children—every night, and execute them the next morning. Rodomontade was a toad, but he wasn’t stupid. He had to consider what would happen should the revolutionaries be defeated. He did have the people arrested, but stayed their execution. With this duplicity he could seek leniency, claiming to have saved hundreds of lives by defying a direct order from Rennedee. Should Rennedee be successful and return to Oria with the nuclear weapons, Rodomontade could just execute the people then, thereby confirming his loyalty to Rennedee.

The general paused. There was no discussion among the Committee members, no stray remarks or chatter. Everyone knew Raton’s thoroughness. Most of their questions would be answered even before they were asked.

“Our second option, to be implemented concurrently, is also military. Let me introduce General Abgeo Ribbert, head of our Special Missions Unit.”

The general was one of the other two officers in the room. His chair was off the table, behind the Chairman and General Raton. The Chairman moved his chair slightly to the left to allow Ribbert to stand comfortably at the table while addressing the Committee.

Aside from the Chairman and General Raton, none of the other Committee members had met, seen or even heard of Ribbert. This was as it should be. Ribbert’s unit was the most secret, hush-hush, elite, high-tech in the Armed Forces. Many of the Unit’s operations had political implications with foreign powers. The politicians had to have plausible deniability of their operations. General knowledge of any of their operations could be terribly embarrassing. Aside from the Cube insignia on his collar denoting the rank of general, and his obviously excellent physical condition, although not approaching the physique of General Raton or anywhere near the other officer in the room, he looked like almost any other early middle-age male on Oria.

As always, Ribbert was efficient and to the point. “Thank you, Sir,” he said, looking at General Raton, the Chairman, and as he glanced at the other Committee members, “Ladies and Gentlemen. Our plan is to kill Rennedee on Earth, before he can return to Oria with the nuclear weapons. There is time to send only one man. Because of Rennedee’s four day head start, we cannot intercept him before he reaches Earth. However, we do hope to make up two, or possibly even three days, of this head start by having the quark-drive fighter transporting our man receive an energy boost beamed directly from the Cube. Just as Rennedee is planning to do, our man will take over/assimilate the body of an earth man and assume his existence. We’ve already identified a ‘human,’ as they call themselves, we feel will provide a perfect cover for this operation. Our man will stalk and kill Rennedee on Earth, before he can precipitate nuclear war and leave Earth with the weapons.

“After discussions with Chairman Rommeler, General Raton and my senior officers, we feel we must keep the mission’s parameters as simple as possible. Because any virtual photon transmissions coming from the direction of Earth would immediately alert the rebels to our intentions, communications can be only unidirectional. There are many variables that will be impossible to predict in advance. We must reduce all factors to their basics. Our man must have maximum flexibility to make decisions based upon his judgment of the situation. We have thus decided that this mission will have only two directives. The first is to kill Rennedee on Earth. Nothing, I repeat nothing, supersedes this directive. At all costs, Rennedee must be stopped on Earth.”

As Ribbert spoke, he used no particular gestures or body language, facial expressions or voice inflection. Only his determination was obvious.

“The second directive, superseded only by the first, is that our soldier’s alien identity must remain a secret. The repercussions to their society that an alien was on Earth, much less to kill someone in a position of great importance, would be impossible to determine. Anything at all that could point to an alien origin, including weapons and our man’s identity, will be camouflaged. Our man will sacrifice the secret of his alien identity only if it is required to kill Rennedee.” Ribbert glanced at the younger officer seated behind him. “To complete this mission we have chosen Major Hoken Rommeler.”

The other officer stood up and took a step forward from the shadows toward the table, to stand just behind Raton’s right shoulder. Hoken was the youngest of Chairman Rommeler’s three sons, and at thirty-three, the youngest major in the service. He was well known to all, not only because of his father, but even moreso because of his service record. It was his unit that had broken through the Grog lines in the recent Grog-Azark War to change the course of the battle and lead to final victory.

General Ribbert continued. “Major Rommeler was chosen because he has the combination of skills that makes him best suited to complete this mission. He will leave for Earth in eight hours. As General Raton has noted, both of our military options will be implemented simultaneously.”

Ribbert nodded to Raton and Chairman Rommeler that he was finished with his presentation. He and Major Rommeler stepped back and stood at ease, legs spread apart, hands clasped behind their backs.

General Raton looked back at the soldiers and said, “General, Major, you are dismissed.” The two walked briskly to the door and let themselves out.

Chairman Rommeler waited for both men to leave the room and then immediately got back to business. “Our third option requires a political, not a military, decision. It is whether to use our ultimate weapon, the Rankin Cube. Everyone,” he paused and repeated, “everyone on our planet has known from the outset that the revolutionaries could be defeated at any time were we willing to use the power of the Cube as a weapon, to scorch the land held by the revolutionaries. The practical consequences of incinerating the surface of 11 percent of our planet, and in the process killing as many as 7 percent of our citizens, hundreds of million of our people, and the consequences to our consciences”—he said with an almost painful look—“were so abhorrent that none of us even mentioned this terrible but obvious option. We must never forget that our enemies are really our fellow citizens, many of whom are merely innocent bystanders in this tragedy.

“However, it is my opinion that Rennedee cannot be allowed to bring nuclear weapons to this planet. Billions could die. I formally recommend to this Committee that if both of the military options just discussed fail and Rennedee brings nuclear weapons to this planet, that the power of the Cube be unleashed on the revolutionaries. I ask for your opinions.”

Hwaet Wir-Gardena, the senior member of the Committee, spoke first. Wir-Gardena always sat to the left of the Chairman. At age 132, he was the senior member both in age and in length of service, 59 years. Wir-Gardena was Chairman Emeritus of the planet’s second largest industrial concern. He had twice been offered the Chairmanship of the Committee but declined. The only award he ever accepted was the Decoration of Biro, the equivalent of an intergalactic Nobel Peace Prize. Wir-Gardena was simply the most respected man on the planet. His sincerity generated trust and his honesty and character were above reproach. He was Chairman Rommeler’s personal hero. Rommeler considered him “The Great One of Our Age.” Because of his stature, a word that seemingly originated to describe a man such as him, it was uncommon for any major issue to pass without his support.

Although Wir-Gardena seemed, especially as time went on, to be the ultimate of the corporate-establishment type, it was only after he died, and his biographers examined the record, that they came to a really startling observation: Wir-Gardena valued and furthered the careers of the people who others would consider mavericks or individualists; the people who broke new ground, the people like current Chairman Metetet Rommeler.

Wir-Gardena said very little at the meetings, letting the issues of lesser importance be decided without his input. He often just leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, giving the appearance to new members that he might even be asleep. He was never asleep. Wir-Gardena didn’t have to worry about his image because the proceedings of the Committee of One Hundred and the Committee of Ten were never broadcast. Normally, they would have narcotized even the most shrill political activists, putting them asleep. The less the citizens knew about the personalities of their leaders, the happier they were.

Wir-Gardena leaned forward and folded his arms on the table in front of him. He looked at the Chairman, then Vice-Chairperson Muzeal, General Raton and around the table, making eye contact with everyone. The pause before he began speaking seemed longer than the time it would take for our hero to get to Earth. He nodded his head twice, squinted slightly, lips twitching, nostrils slightly flared, and then said, “After all of my years of public service and my more than half a century on this Committee, the thought of being on the first tribunal in our planet’s history to use the power of the Rankin Cube”—he stopped—“to even consider using the power of the Cube for anything but peaceful purposes disheartens—no,” he said solemnly, “it sickens and profoundly embarrasses me.”

Wir-Gardena sat up straight and began to speak a little more rapidly to show that he had made up his mind. “However, I agree with Chairman Rommeler’s and General Raton’s assessment of the current situation. Under no circumstances, none whatsoever,” he said with obvious finality, “can we allow Rennedee to set foot on our planet with nuclear weapons. Mr. Chairman, fellow Committee members, you have my support for all three options just presented to us.”

The Chairman continued around the table, starting to Wir-Gardena’s left, making sure he had everyone’s opinions and support.

“Geneen, may we have your thoughts?”

Geneen Ricc’e represented the legal profession. She was the administrative partner of a relatively small but extremely influential law firm specializing in intergalactic commerce. Ricc’e kept herself in good physical condition and always dressed nicely. She was not physically beautiful or stunning. Most considered here moderately attractive, although the impression of how attractive she was seemed to increase as she moved up the political ladder.

She was also by far the quietest member of the Committee of Ten, saying even less than Wir-Gardena. She was bright, energetic, hard working, and talented, but just didn’t seem to have the blazing intellect or strength of character of the other Committee members, of one who had risen so far in the meritocracy of Oria.

In fact, once, in private, Chairman Rommeler, despite his reluctance to discuss his personal impression of others, had mentioned this to Wir-Gardena, who had carried the same nagging questions about something in her he just couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Hwaet, she’s more manipulative than shrewd, she’s observant but not particularly insightful, and she’s intelligent…” he paused obviously searching for the right word.

“She’s intelligent but not wise,” said Wir-Gardena.

“It just doesn’t add up, does it?” said Rommeler shaking his head.

Both the Chairman’s and Wir-Gardena’s intuition and suspicions were correct. Ricc’e was a crook, in fact, probably the biggest crook on the planet. She was currently blackmailing three members of the Committee of One Hundred. Ricc’e owed her success to her intelligence and talent, to the fact that she always worked alone; there were no ring members or accomplices to betray her, to rat her out, but mostly because she wasn’t greedy. She was quite happy to take some from here, some from there, but never enough to cause her to slip up and make her vulnerable. Twice she let multi-million hora deals (the hora is the unit of currency on Oria, representing the output of the average Orian worker in one hour) go because they were just too hot. She could only spend so much money. It was power that she wanted to accumulate; it was how she kept score.

She said only, “I agree.”

Rommeler paused. Considering this was the most important political decision of everyone’s life, he wanted to give Ricc’e a chance to make any further comments or suggestions. There were none, so he continued on around the table.

He looked at Blanck, seated on Ricc’e’s left, who said, “I have already given my opinion. Under no circumstances can we allow nuclear weapons on our planet!”

To Blanck’s left was Piros Redd, representing the arts. He was a short man by Orian standards, with a head that seemed a little too large even for his slightly plump, non-athletic body, and cheeks better described as jowls and the turkey neck that usually went with it. He invariably wore a suit that was about to go out of fashion and kept his hair cut short so he didn’t have to worry about combing it. Redd was not a performer or artist himself: he couldn’t sing, he couldn’t dance, he couldn’t act. He hadn’t played an instrument, aside from the zloom, a kazoo-like instrument, for years, and he often joked that he couldn’t even draw a circle with a protractor.

Redd was an impresario, a judge of talent. He was insightful, a great judge of intent and motives.

In the official records of Oria, the members of the Committee of Ten were given numerical designations to facilitate the recording of their votes. To honor Adipatt Kottel, first Chairman of the Committee of One Hundred, all subsequent members of the Committee were given the designation K followed by a number denoting their order of elevation to membership. Redd, the Impresario, was K 486.

Redd got quickly to the point. “It seems that only twenty minutes would hardly be sufficient time to reach so momentous a decision as to use the power of the Cube on our own citizens. But we are not acting in haste or in error. I have absolutely no doubt that Rennedee has the intention—and the will—to use nuclear weapons on our planet. I support all three proposals, including, should it be required, the use of the Rankin Cube.”

The next seat was vacant. The Chairman said, “To remind you, Dr. Slaytorre has given her proxy to Mr. Wir-Gardena.

“Sir,” said Rommeler looking at Wir-Gardena on his left, “How does Dr. Slaytorre vote?”

“She votes as I do,” he said, “in support of all three proposals.”

“I’ll brief her as soon as she returns to Oria,” said the Chairman.

Pilon Occabid was seated directly across the table from the Chairman. “Pilon, may we have your opinion, please?”

Occabid was president of The House of Moley-Gard, Oria’s largest financial institution. His general appearance was exactly what one would expect of the most important and successful banker on the planet. He always dressed nicely but not extravagantly, a nice handkerchief in his pocket, and an antique mother-of-pearl tie pin highlighted by a small diamond. He seemed to have an innate knack to let the other person both start and continue the conversation while he would just nod. If he said anything more than: “Hello, my name is Pilon Occabid,” he was talking too much. He’d make Calvin Coolidge look like a gabbing, blabber-mouth, chit-chat. He was unfailingly polite, never calling a person by their first name until they asked him to.

He was also never accused of being charming. There was a story, whether true or apocryphal, that he hadn’t smiled since the doctor spanked his fanny when he was born. Neither his father nor his mother would confirm or deny it. He considered himself to be a contrarian, when in actuality he was often no more than a dour pessimist.

Occabid was not a risk-taker. Fighter pilots, professional gamblers and a wealthy sixty-five year old man taking a hot twenty-five year old chick for his fourth wife are risk takers; bankers on Oria are not. He had tremendously sound judgment. He was not on the Committee to break new ground. Rather, his temperament and background were best suited to prevent mistakes due to poor or hasty judgment. If anyone were to object to the use of the Cube, it would be Occabid.

Paradoxically, what separated Occabid from other bankers—what defined his greatness in the profession—was how he arrived at decisions. His snap judgments, seemingly made without sufficient information, were always his best. It was just obvious, at least to him, how to proceed.

“I have been on this Committee for twenty-four years,” said Occabid, “and rarely has a decision been so easy. I will never second-guess myself. We must show no hesitation or equivocation. Rennedee must not be allowed to bring nuclear weapons to our planet. Should any of the options we have so far discussed fail, and any that may present themselves in the interim, you have my complete support to use the power of the Cube.”

Rommeler nodded, and turned to Riccardo, “Ennui, may we have your opinion?” said the Chairman.

Riccardo said only two words. “I agree.”

The Chairman looked at Muzeal. “Clonette, may we have your opinion?”

Muzeal was CEO of one of Oria’s largest military hardware producers, and Vice Chairperson of the Committee. She looked like everyone’s dream mother or grandmother. Not the reverse-muscles, jingly, bingo-arms, chest-below-the-waist, Golda Meir type, but more like a late-middle-age, gracefully-aging Betty Crocker. She also acted the part, routinely calling everyone, men and women alike, “honey,” or occasionally, “dear.”

Her down-home, beguiling manner caused everyone to invariably underestimate her. This never happened more than once to anyone with any common sense. When Muzeal replaced Trah Zoizuh (a man who invariably came across as sleazy and boorish because he was), on the Committee of One Hundred, he let it “leak” to the press that he thought she was a softy, not worthy of the position. When they met for the first time at the swearing in, Muzeal said “Trah (no way she intended to call him Mr. Zoizuh), I’m sorry we didn’t meet ten years earlier. I’m told you used to be a great man.” The Septadian ambassador summed it up best when he said, “Her naïveté is surpassed only by her cunning.” Muzeal was somewhere between Ma Kettle on the outside and Margaret Thatcher on androgen cream on the inside.

“You know,” Muzeal said, “I have two cousins living in the rebel area. They are sympathetic to some of the issues of the revolution, that’s why they never left, but to my knowledge, they never personally supported Rennedee and have never born arms against us. I love them dearly and I am proud of them. They are good, honest, hard-working people, and both have families.” She paused. “I’m sorry to interject my own personal feelings, but for my own conscience I must mention them. You have my approval to use the power of the Cube, if required.”

Rommeler turned to the man on his right. “General, we’ve discussed this several times in private, but for the record, give us your opinion please.”

“Sir,” said Raton, “I am confident we will not be forced to use the Rankin Cube as a weapon. Major Rommeler will kill Rennedee on Earth. We have chosen the right man and he is backed up by the best unit in our military. But if we can not defeat the rebels here within two to three weeks, which is very possible but not at all assured, or if Major Rommeler cannot stop Rennedee on Earth, I believe we should turn the power of the Cube against the rebels.”

“I now call for a vote,” said the Chairman. “All in favor of using the Rankin Cube against the rebels, please signify by saying “aye.”

All said “aye,” and all raised their hands.

“Any opposed, signify by the same sign.”

There were none.

There was visible relief. It was done. Everyone knew they had just made the most important decision in their lives. But even before they could start to unwind, the Chairman said, “Unfortunately, we have answered only half of the question.”

There was silence, broken only by that look of What? on everyone’s face.

“We must now decide when we will be willing to unleash the power of the Cube. Rather than take the chance that Rennedee might return with the nuclear weapons, should we consider a preemptive strike with the Cube and end the conflict now?” said the Chairman.

“What,” Redd blurted out. “What! A preemptive strike?” he said with a look of both amazement and disgust.

Ricc’e visibly stiffened. Blanck started to stand up then sat back down and spun his chair to the rear, as if it would be able to distance him from the question. Muzeal just looked down and ran her fingers over the wood grain of the table. If there was one thing Wir-Gardena didn’t like it was surprises, and this was a doozy. He looked straight at the Chairman and then at General Raton with a stare neither had been subjected to before. The others just shook their heads.

“General,” said the Chairman looking at Raton with a nod, “should we make a preemptive strike?” The Chairman then repeated himself, so as to give everyone a little more chance to regain their composure. “Should we make a preemptive strike?”

“I was the one who raised the possibility with the Chairman,” said Raton. “It’s a standard military option whenever your opponent has the capability to destroy you or inflict very serious damage. Should we strike first? There is no more difficult a question. You are trading one uncertainty for another. The uncertainty of victory or defeat is replaced by: Did we need to do it?”

People were starting to calm down with Raton’s explanation of the facts and decision-making process. Blanck spun his chair back around to face the table.

“In general,” continued Raton, “the deciding factor is the likelihood the event will occur. If your opponent has the ability to destroy you and it is inevitable they will attack, then the decision is clear—you must attack first. In our situation that’s not inevitable. If Rennedee gets to Earth, I put the chance that he will be able to obtain the weapons at 50 to70 percent. Against this is a 40 to possibly as high as 60 percent chance that Major Rommeler will be successful in stopping him on Earth. Even if Rennedee is successful in obtaining the weapons, I put the chance that we might be able to defeat the rebels within the next two weeks before he can return at 20 to maybe 30 percent. The bottom line is that the chance Rennedee could return to Oria with nuclear weapons and be in a position to use them is low, but unfortunately, is not zero. It is very real. I estimate it to be at least 10 percent, and it could be as high as 20 to even 25 percent.”

The Chairman knew this would be controversial in the extreme, the discussion could be rancorous and emotional, and that he might even lose control of the meeting. But he needn’t have worried. Raton had barely finished when Wir-Gardena instantly stepped in. “Mr. Chairman, we could debate this issue all day. It is a question of military judgment that none of us ever had to consider or even contemplate before. It is outside of our areas of expertise.”

Wir-Gardena looked at Raton. “General, what do you recommend?”

“I recommend we do not make a preemptive strike,” said Raton.

“I trust your opinion, I support it, and I agree,” added Wir-Gardena.

“Is there any further discussion?” said the Chairman as he looked around the room. There was none.

“I apologize that the way I introduced the issue caused undue concern,” said the Chairman. “That, of course, was not my intention. However, it was an issue that needed to be mentioned.

“In summary, you have given me the authority to use the power of the Cube, should the situation dictate. I will seek the counsel of General Raton and whomever else may be required, but the final decision will be mine.

“Is there any further discussion?” There was none.

The meeting was clearly due to end. “I would be remiss,” said the Chairman, “not to caution you to not mention the substance of this meeting, or even that it was held, to anyone, including other members of the Committee of One Hundred. Absolute secrecy is essential. We must bear this responsibility ourselves.”

As soon as the meeting concluded, Geneen Ricc’e headed to her office. Within three hours she had transferred more than 90 percent of her personal assets to the home planet of the Septadians, the safest planet in the galaxy.