Larry Niven - Footfall

The Herdmaster pointed to a screen. The view zoomed toward a distant, fuzzy object. As Dawson watched, it flared brilliant green, then flared again. Faint blue-green threads played against it from distant digit ships.

The Herdmaster gestured impatiently. “Look at that and tell me what it is.”

Dawson’s lips curved in a smile. “That is a tape of Star Wars,” he said. We’re fighting! Should I have jumped that soldier? Hell no. This is where they run everything. Stall. Wait for the chance to snatch a gun and …

“Speak our language, Dawson. We have no time for gibberish. You lectured Fathisteh-tulk on devices for use in space. Lecture me now regarding that. If you remain silent, I will return you your silence.”

“I can’t even tell which is which. There’s too much going on. “That big blinking thing — is that ours?”

“No, it rose from the United States. It carries a weapon that would be a laser but that it sends an impossibly high frequency. We have no such in our thuktunthp. What can you tell us?”

The last thing Wes wanted was to return to the dreadful silence of his cell. Here was where it was all happening! And he wouldn be giving away anything useful. “Gamma-ray lasers are possible. They destroy themselves, you only fire them once. You power them with a fission explosion.”

The Herdmaster bellowed something.

Takpusseh-yamp spoke too rapidly for Wes to follow. Another fi’, one Dawson was certain he had never seen before, listened gravely, then spoke slowly.

“Perhaps. There is nothing in the thuktunthp. This would explain why they use so many bombs.”

“What is the purpose of the intruder?”

Was that a serious question? Wes said, “They make war.”

“War has a purpose. What is the purpose? Do they seek a not surrender surrender?”

“I don’t understand. They want you extinct. They’re coming to kill you.”

“They will kill entire fithp? Females, children?”

“India.”

“India was not all of the human fithp.”

“Unless you surrender, that ship will destroy Thuktun Flishithy.”

The Herdmaster didn’t seem surprised. He spoke to the fourth fi’ in the group. “Defensemaster, you have heard. Warriors, keep this one there, where he will not interfere.”

The guards dragged him to one bulkhead. They placed his hands against the damp, spongy wall. “Grip.” Each hand was encircled by tentacles. The fithp warriors dug their claws into the floor.

The Herdmaster made certain that Dawson was held securely, far enough away that he could not overhear.

Thrust was steady now. The sixteen digit ships which had surrounded Message Bearer, her last wall of defense, were dwindling in her wake. “Defensemaster.”

“Lead me.”

“Can — we avoid battle?”

“Herdmaster, the intruder already has too high a velocity. If we thrust lateral to his path, he will still miss by only a few makasrupkithp. I am thrusting away from him, directly out from Winterhome. He must pass the last digit ships to find us.”

“This is your thuktun.” Do it your way. “Takpusseh-yamp.”

“Lead me.”

“Raztupisp-minz told us that the humans in Africa often demand conditions before foot touches chest. What words did he use? ‘Not surrender surrender’?”

“We took to calling it a ‘negotiated loss of status.’ ”

“Draft me one to be used if we lose this battle.”

“Herdmaster, is this possible?”

“Probably not. What else are you busy at? You have said yourself that this is their last attempt to break from beneath our foot. When the intruder is gone, then we can let them study how to surrender to us. Meanwhile, exercise your skill. Prepare for us negotiated loss of status giving them as little as possible.”

“Herdmaster?”

The call came from one of the lesser posts. “Speak.”

“Camera twenty-eight.”

The Herdmaster tapped two buttons. A screen lit with a view of an air duct … and a small, red-haired human female.

“It’s — she’s just outside the aft control room, watching through the grill.”

“Send a warrior for her. Send another-send three to the human restraint cell. If she’s loose, they may all be loose. And summon Tashayamp!”

Half a dozen fithp were beyond the grill. They didn’t seem particularly excited by what they were watching, and they were all doing anything but switching the views on their TV sets. One view stayed. It showed a room like this one, but much larger. There were windows, with stars beyond.

There was Wes Dawson, against a wall, between two of the horrors.

And there, suddenly live on another screen, Alice saw herself peering through an air duct.

Time to move on, Alice thought. Forward. Windows on a spaceship had to be at the nose…

The big digital timer above the war screens ticked off the seconds since Michael’s launch. When it passed six hours, Admiral Carrell said, “Try it now.” He put on his own headset.

Jack Clybourne sidled through the room like an English butler, silently removing coffee cups and emptying ashtrays, before fading back against one wall. Can you type? Jenny thought. She touched keys, and gave orders that flashed across half the globe.

Somewhere out there a submarine sticks its nose up just so we can get a report. The situation boards had showed few changes in the past two hours. The missile sites in Georgia and Missouri were craters now, and a curious pattern of meteoric death, neither random nor any geometric figure Jenny had ever seen, had fallen on the South Atlantic. Nothing had hit Bellingham yet. Harpanet had been badly upset to learn that the Friendly Snout had been painted on the Archangel dome. If the digit ships were given leisure — if Michael fell — they would punish that affront.

There was static in her phones. “Try routing through Florida.”

“Trying, sir.” And if that doesn’t work … “Gimlet, we have Nosebleed.” The computer console identified Nosebleed: Ethan Allen.

“He must have gone deep,” Admiral Carrell said. “I thought we’d lost him.”

“Gimlet, we have Chickenpox.” Another nuclear sub.

“Two possible links. Good enough. Try to get through,” Carrell said.

“Michael, this is Gimlet.” Oh ye Thrones, Dominions, and Powers …

Static burst in her headset. She winced.

“Can you put it on the speaker?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Gimlet, this is Michael.”

Hurrah! “Michael, this is Gimlet. Your orders are unchanged. Continue your mission. Godspeed, Ed. Report, please.”

“Reporting. We’re 20,000 miles above Africa and climbing, present vel …” The voice faded.

“Come on,” General Toland whispered.

“Garble garble but no serious damage. Casualties are light. We have launched five gunships and one Shuttle to assist in breaking through garble garble …”

Damn!

“… a formation of digit ships above Africa. At plus one poi garble garble its drive. We believe the enemy mother ship running away. Garble garble.”

“They have to catch it!” the President said.

“Michael, continue pursuit.”

“… are in pursuit. Estimate we will be in effective rank within six to twelve hours. We will have to fight our way past a formation of sixteen digit ships they have left to delay garble garble.”

“Hoo boy.” General Toland thought he was whispering.

The countdown timer showed 6 hours, 12 minutes since Michael’s launch.

“We have not been attacked for four hours. The next attack may be worse. No missiles so far. We’ve used more missiles than I like, but we still have plenty, and the spurt bomb supply is garb blurbie garble garble.”