Poul Anderson - The Star Fox

The car stopped at the Quai d’Orsay and let him out. He heard the Seine lap darkly against its embankment, under the thin chill wind. Otherwise the district was quiet, with scant traffic, the whirr of the city machines nearly lost. But sky-glow hid the stars.

Gendarmes stood guard. Their faces were tense above the flapping capes. All France was tensed and bitter, one heard. Heim was conducted down long corridors where not a few people were working late, to Coquelin’s office.

The minister laid aside a stack of papers and rose to greet him. “How do you do,” he said.

The tone was weary but the English flawless. That was luck; Heim’s French had gotten creaky over the years. Coquelin gestured at a worn, comfortable old-style chair by his desk. “Please be seated. Would you like a cigar?”

“No, thanks, I’m a pipe man.” Heim took his out.

“I too.” Coquelin’s face meshed in crow’s feet and calipers when he smiled; he sat down and began to load a still more disreputable briar. He was short but powerfully built, square of countenance, bald of dome, with very steady brown eyes. “Well, Mr. Heim, what can I do for you?”

“Uh… it concerns New Europe.”

“I thought so.” The smile died.

“In my opinion—” Heim decided he was being pompous.

“M. Coquelin,” he said, “I believe Earth ought to do whatever is necessary to get New Europe back.”

Coquelin’s look went over his guest’s features, centimeter by centimeter, while he started his pipe. “Thank you for that,” he said at length. “We have felt lonely in France.”

“I have some material here that might help.”

The least intake of breath went through Coquelin’s teeth. “Proceed, if you please.”

He sat altogether expressionless, smoking, never glancing away, while Heim talked. Only once did he interrupt: “Cynbe? Ah, yes, I have met him. The one they have quartered at—No, best I not say. Officially I am not supposed to know. Go on.”

In the end he opened the packet, slipped a few films into the viewer on his desk, read, and nodded. The stillness quivered near breaking point Heim puffed volcano-like, stared out the window into darkness, shifted his bulk so the chair groaned, and listened to his own heartbeat Finally Coquelin muttered, “There have been rumors about this.” After another silence: “I shall see that you and Vadász join the Légion d’Honneur. Whatever happens.”

“What will?” Heim asked. His jaws ached with being clamped together.

Coquelin shrugged. “Nothing, probably,” he said, dull-voiced. “They are determined to buy what they call peace.”

“Oh. Yes, you’d know. So I can tell you I also know the plan.”

“That Alerion shall have Europe Neuve? Good, we can speak freely. I am naturally honor bound not to reveal what is being decided until my fellow committeemen agree, and it would be a futile act with disastrous political consequences if I broke that promise. So I am most glad to have an outside listener.” Coquelin passed a hand across his eyes. “But there is little we can say, no?”

“There’s plenty!” Heim exclaimed. “Come the formal meeting, you can show this stuff to Parliament, with scientific proof it’s genuine. You can ask them how anyone can hope to get reelected after selling out so many human beings.”

“Yes, yes.” Coquelin stared at his pipe bowl, where the fire waxed and waned, waxed and waned. “And some will say I lie. That my evidence is forged and my scientists are bribed. Others will say alas, this is terrible, but—half a million people? Why, a few missiles striking population centers on Earth could kill twenty tunes that many, a hundred times; and we had no right to be in the Phoenix; and nothing matters except to make friends with Alerion, for otherwise we must look for decades of war; so we can only weep for our people out there, we cannot help them.” His grin was dreadful to see. “I daresay a monument will be raised to them. Martyrs in the cause of peace.”

“But this is ridiculous! Earth can’t be attacked. Or if it can, then so can Alerion, and they won’t provoke that when we have twice their strength. A single flotilla right now could drive them out of the Auroran System.”

“Half the Navy has been recalled for home defense. The other half is out in the Marches, keeping watch on the Aleriona fleet, which is also maneuvering there. Even some of the admirals I have consulted do not wish to spare a flotilla for Aurore. For as you must know, monsieur, the numbers available on either side are not large, when a single nuclear-armed vessel has so much destructive capability.”

“So we do nothing?” Heim grated. “Why, at the moment even one ship could—could make serious trouble for the enemy. They can’t have any great strength at Aurore as yet. But give them a year or two and they’ll make New Europe as unattackable as Earth.”

“I know.” Coquelin swiveled around, rested his elbows oh his desk, and let his head sink between his shoulders. “I shall argue. But… tonight I feel old, Mr. Heim.”

“My God, sir! If the Federation won’t act, how about France by herself?”

“Impossible. We cannot even negotiate as a single country with any extraterrestrial power, under the Constitution. We are not allowed any armed force, any machine of war, above the police level. Such is reserved for the Peace Control Authority.”

“Yes, yes, yes—”

“In fact—” Coquelin glanced up. A muscle twitched in one cheek. “Now that I think about what you have brought me, these documents, I do not know if I should make them public.”

“What?”

“Consider. France is furious enough. Let the whole truth be known, including the betrayal, and I dare not predict what might happen. It could well end with Peace Control troops occupying us. And, yes, that would hurt the Federation itself, even more than France. One must put loyalty to the Federation above anything else. Earth is too small for national sovereignty. Nuclear weapons are too powerful.”

Heim looked at the bent head, and the rage in him seemed about to tear him apart. “I’d like to go out myself!” he shouted.

“This would be piracy,” Coquelin sighed.

“No… wait, wait, wait.” The thought flamed into being. Heim sprang to his feet. “Privateers.

Once upon a time there were privately owned warships.”

“Eh, you have read a little history, I see.” Some life came back to Coquelin. He sat straighter and watched the huge, restless figure with eyes again alert. “But I have read more. Privateering was outlawed in the nineteenth century. Even countries not signatory to that pact observed the prohibition, until it came to be regarded as a part of international law. Admitted, the Federal Constitution does not mention so archaic a matter. Still—”

“Exactly!” Heim roared; or was it the demon that had come to birth in his skull?

“No, no, flout the law and the Peace Control forces arrive. I am too old and tired, me, to stand trial before the World Court. To say nothing of the practical difficulties. France cannot declare war by herself. France cannot produce nuclear weapons.” Coquelin uttered a small sad chuckle. “I am a lawyer by past profession. It there were a, you say loophole? I could perhaps squirm through. But here—”

Word by word, Heim said: “I can get hold of the weapons.”

Coquelin leaped in his seat. “ Qu’est-ce que vous dites?”

“Off Earth. I know a place. Don’t you see—Alerion has to put space defenses in orbit around New Europe, or she can’t hold it against any determined attack.” Heim was leaning on the desk now, nose to nose with the other, talking like a machine gun. “New Europe has only a limited industry. So the Aleriona will have to bring most of the stuff from home. A long supply line. One commerce raider—what’d that do to their bargaining position? What’d it do for our own poor buffaloed people? One ship!”