Mike Resnick - Birthright

With the Haiti's speed, maneuvering power, and defenses, the remainder of the job was just a mop-up action. Its armaments—the end product of an arms race that had existed since the first caveman discovered the first femur bone—were devastating, and a few moments’ time saw it chasing the four surviving ships back toward Teron.

“Is there any way we can fake a disabling hit to the Haiti ?” asked Hermione. “Right now?” asked Barnes.

“Well, before the Teroni are beyond sight and sensor range. Then have the ship limp back to Ramor just fast enough so that they can't overhaul it.”

The pilot did as Barnes instructed, and the Teroni returned to their home planet with the false knowledge

that the Haiti wouldn't be able to do too much damage until repairs were made. Before long, Hermione was once again in communication with the Ramorian spokesman. “The ship Haiti, out of Deluros VIII, race of Man, sends you greetings and felicitations.” “Our position remains unchanged,” was the terse reply. “We do not doubt your sincerity,” said Hermione. “But to prove our own goodwill toward all the people of Ramor, we have recently engaged a number of Teroni ships in the vicinity of the moons of your fifth planet.”

“And?” The radio didn't record it, but Hermione had a strong suspicion that there was a long gulp in there somewhere.

“And we achieved a stunning triumph for the people of Ramor. We flew no colors, so the glory of victory will be credited solely to your planetary government. We trust you will accept this as a further proof of our friendship, and—”

“Did you destroy them all?” came the imperative question. “Let me consult my figures,” said Hermione, smiling as she allowed the Ramorian spokesman to sweat for an extra minute. “No,” she said at last. “But twelve Teroni ships were totally demolished with absolutely no Ramorian casualties. Four ships did indeed escape, but we have doubtless secured your mining colonies for the foreseeable future.” “You're sure four of them escaped?”

“Yes,” said Hermione calmly. “We could have hunted them down, but how else would the tyrants of Teron know that they may no longer harass our Ramorian friends with impunity?” Something resembling a groan came across the radio. “And now, to further show our goodwill, the Haiti will return to Deluros VIII, and will never again trespass into Ramorian space until such time as you, our brethren, actively pursue a trading treaty. We bid you farewell, and earnestly wish that your Deity may smile upon you.” She cut communications, and was not surprised to note an immediate attempt to reopen them. “Wait!” came the Ramorian's frantic supplication. “You can't leave our system now!” “Why not?” asked Hermione innocently. “We realize that it will doubtless take you time to consider all the implications of our act of brotherhood. We are prepared to wait until you come to us freely and openly. It is not Man's way to apply force of any type.” “But what if the Teroni return? They still outnumber us!” “Why would they return?” asked Hermione sweetly. “Not only did we teach them new respect for the forces of Ramor, but they have never previously launched an all-out attack on you.”

“They were never so blatantly provoked before,” said the Ramorian bitterly.

“I feel,” said Hermione, “that your worries are needless. After all, I am certain that the four Teroni survivors were too far away to tell that our ship was severely crippled.” “Please explain yourself!” came the desperate demand. “As we were pursuing the survivors, a chance shell exploded against our hull, crippling us. But I'm sure the Teron could not have seen it happen. After all, they were some ten million miles away when it occurred.”

“Their sensing devices have a range of twice that distance!” said the Ramorian. “Now they'll know that it is safe to retaliate against us! They can be here in less than two days!” “I'm so sorry!” exclaimed Hermione. “The repairs required to make our ship totally efficient again would take less than half a day, but I fear the journey to Deluros VIII, in our present condition, will consume almost a year. If only there were some other place where we might make repairs...” “Please stand by,” said the Ramorian. The radio went dead for a few minutes, then came on again. “I have been instructed to inform you that you will be permitted to make your repairs on Ramor, or in orbit about us if that is more convenient to you.” “How charitable of you,” said Hermione. “However, I realize that we have blundered and caused you considerable mental and emotional distress by our meddling. Therefore, I feel it would be unfair to impose on you any further. No, we will follow our original plan and return to Deluros VIII, to repair the ship and await your decision about the reopening of trade.” “But the Teroni will destroy us!”

“Surely you overestimate them,” said Hermione. “However, if you were to consider an immediate trading treaty, we would, as a further gesture of brotherhood, remain in your star system until such time as the Teroni are convinced that Ramor is virtually invincible.” Hermione leaned back, shut her eyes, and smiled. It was too bad, she decided, that neither the Ramorians nor Galactic had an analog word for “blackmail.” Within two hours, Hermione Chatham-Smythe, ambassador-at-large, and the premier of Ramor's planetary government had affixed their signatures to a treaty that once again allowed Man to deal commercially with the inhabitants of the Ramorian system. After sending the news on to Deluros VIII, Hermione invited the pilot and Commodore Barnes up to her suite for a brandy.

“Where to next ma'am?” asked the pilot. “It's been quite a long time since we've established a reciprocal trade agreement with any chlorine-breathers in this sector. I'm sure that, given time, we can convince our Teroni brethren of our friendship and good intentions. Don't you agree?” She smiled sweetly and took a sip from her delicate longstemmed glass.

7: THE OLYMPIANS

...Like the Pony Express, which earned a place in human history far surpassing the importance of its accomplishments in its eleven-month lifetime, so did the cult of the Olympians receive an amount of publicity totally out of proportion to its achievements during its brief, twenty-two month existence. This in no way is meant to denigrate those romantic idols of the early Democracy, for at that time Man needed all the heroes he could get, and certainly no group ever filled that need with the zest and flourish of the Olympians...

—Man: Twelve Millennia of Achievement ...Perhaps worthy of a passing mention are the Olympians,

for it is doubtful that any other segment of humanity so accurately mirrored Man's incredible ego, his delight in humiliating other races, and... — Origin and History of the Sentient Races , Vol. 8 There were fifty thousand beings in the stadium, and countless billions more watching via video. And every last one of them shared the same goal: to watch him go crashing down to defeat. “Big moment's coming up!” said Hailey, who slapped life into his legs as he lay, face down, on the rubbing table. “Today's the day we'll show ‘em, big fella.” He stared dead ahead, unmoving. “You hope,” he said. “I know,” said Hailey. “You're a Man, kid, and Men don't lose. Ready to meet the press yet?” He nodded.

The door was unlatched, and a flood of reporters, human and nonhuman, pressed about him. “Still think you're going to take him, Big John?” He nodded. Olympians were known for their reticence. They had managers to answer questions. “It's one hundred and thirty degrees out there,” said another. “Not much oxygen, either.” He simply stared at the reporter. No question had been asked, so he offered no answer. “Boys,” said Hailey, stepping in front of him, “you know Big John's got to get emotionally up for this, so shoot your questions at me. I'll be happy to answer any of them.” He flashed a confident grin at one of the video cameras.