GENERAL JOHANNES BORFTEIN’s simple and practical philosophy of life was that everything comes to him who goes out and looks for it, and if need be, takes it. Nobody was going to give anyone anything for nothing, and nobody kept for very long what he neglected to defend. The name of the game was Survival. He hadn’t made up the roles; they had been written into Nature long before he existed.
Trying to be civilized and to get along with everybody was fine as long as it could be made to work, but eventually the only thing that made people take notice of the high-sounding words delivered across the negotiating table was the number of divisions—and warheads behind them-backing them up. And if, when all else failed, the only way left for a nation to look after its interests was to defend them by force, then the best chance for survival lay with promoting the cause totally and using every expedient that came at hand; half measures were fatal. The shorter-term price to be paid was regrettable, but when had Nature ever offered free lunches? And in the longer term, what did it mean anyway? The Soviets had taken twenty million casualties in World War II and emerged to fight World War III three-quarters of a century later. And in that conflict the U.S. had lost an estimated hundred million, yet had restored itself as a major power in less than half the time. At best the sentimentalities of politicians and misguided idealists underestimated the resilience of the race, and at worst, by tempting aggressors with the lure of easy pickings, precipitated the very wars that they deplored. Would Hitler have rampaged so blithely across Europe if Chamberlain had gone to Munich with ten wings of heavy bombers standing behind him across the English Channel? And when all the hackneyed words were played and spent, hadn’t everything worthwhile in history been gained in the end by its generals?
Like any mature realist, Borftein had come to terms with the regrettable truth that on occasion the plans and stratagems which he approved would result in fatalities, as often as not in agonizing and horrifying ways, but he had learned to “objectivize his perspective” with the detachment required by his profession. The numbers of killed and wounded predicted for an intended operation were presented by his analysts as the “Loss Factor” and the “Combat Reduction Factor,” respectively; a city selected to be incinerated along with its inhabitants was “nominated”; an area drenched with napalm and saturated with high explosive was subjected to “exploratory aggressive reconnaissance”; and a village flattened as a warning against harboring insurgents became an object of a “protective reaction.” Such were the rules.
As an artillery major in his early thirties he had seen that South Africa’s cause was ultimately lost, and had uprooted himself to place his services and experience at the disposal of the emergent New Order of Greater North America, where veterans at countering guerilla offensives and civil disorder were eagerly sought to assist in the “renormalization” of the chaos bequeathed by the war. Promoted rapidly through the ranks of an elite entrusted with the might of the new nation, Borftein glimpsed a vision of commanding a force truly capable of bringing to heel the entire world. But the vision had been short-lived. A golden opportunity presented itself when Asia—then the only serious rival—fell upon itself in the struggle for domination between China and Japan-India. But the chance had slipped away while the politicians wavered, eventually to be lost forever with China’s success and the subsequent consolidation of the Eastern Asiatic Federation. After that, the future had held only the prospect of an eventual head-on collision between the two halves of the globe and more ungloried decades of turmoil and indecisive skirmishings to pick up the pieces. Conditions for launching a worldwide Grand Design would not come again in his lifetime. And so he had left to seek a more rewarding destiny with the Mayflower II. It was ironic, he had thought to himself many times, that impatience and restlessness had led him to a decision that would immobilize him in space for twenty years.
His impatience was asserting itself again now, as Borftein sat in the chambers of Judge William Fulmire, the Mayflower II’s Supreme Justice, listening to Howard Kalens and Marcia Quarrey argue over the finer points of the Mission’s constitution, while on the surface the troops were fraternizing openly with what could become the enemy, and two years away in space the EAF starship dally drew nearer. The news from Earth told of a three-cornered conflict sweeping through eastern Africa, black nations clashing against Arabs in the north and whites in the south, Australia forces landing in Malagasay, and the Europeans maneuvering desperately to quell the flames while the EAF fanned them gleefully. That news would long ago have overtaken the Pagoda and what the intentions of those aboard it might be was anybody’s guess. It wasn’t a time to be fussing over ambiguous syntax and legal niceties.
Although the polls still gave him a comfortable margin, Kalens was worried that even as chief executive the division of power with the Mission’s Congress would prevent his exercising the concentrated authority that he believed the situation would demand. Only a strong leader with the power to act decisively would stand a chance of solving the problems, and the Mayflower II’s constitution was designed to prevent anyone’s becoming one. Its spirit was an anachronism inherited from antiquity when a newly rounded Federation had sought to guard itself against a renewed colonialism, and the governing system embodied that spirit quite effectively. That was the problem.
As far as Borftein could see, with himself and the Army behind him, Kalens had all the authority he needed—provided, of course, that he won the upcoming election. But after talking to Sterm about it, Kalens had accepted that an attempt to impose authority over Chiron overtly would risk alienating the Mission’s population. A more subtle approach was called for. “Ultimately, human instincts cling to the known and the familiar,” Kalens lectured Borftein later. “A visible commitment to lawfulness as a alternative to the lawlessness of this planet is the way to maintain cohesiveness. We can’t afford to jeopardize that.” So Borftein had agreed to try playing the game their way, which hinged upon provisions written into the laws to take account of the abnormal circumstances of a twenty-year voyage through space.
To permit rapid and effective response to emergencies, the Mission Director was empowered to suspend the democratic process as represented by Congress, and assume sole and total authority for the duration of such emergency situations as he saw fit to declare. Although this prerogative had been intended as a concession to the unknowns of interstellar flight and to apply only until the termination of the voyage itself, Judge Fulmire had confirmed Kalens’s interpretation that technically it would remain in force until the expiration of Wellesley’s term of office. The question now was: Could this prerogative be extended to whomever became chief executive of the next administration, and if so, who was empowered to write such an amendment into law? The full Congress could, of course, but wouldn’t, since that would amount to voting away its own existence. Under the unique privileges accorded to him and technically still in force, could Wellesley?
Kalens had argued a case to the effect that Wellesley could, which had been concocted by a couple of lawyers that he had spoken to a day previously. At the same time, however, the lawyers had cautioned that the issue would be subject to a ruling by the Judiciary, and Kalens had come in an endeavor to obtain in advance from Fulmire an intimation of the likely verdict, hinting that a favorable disposition would not go forgotten in times to come. The endeavor had backfired spectacularly.
“I will not be a party to such shenanigans,” the Judge exclaimed. “This is all highly irregular, as you well know. A ruling must be subject to all due process, and only to all due process. There the matter must remain. What you are asking is inexcusable.”
“Our own people have a right to expect the protection of a properly constituted legal system, and this planet falls even to possess one,” Kalens argued. “I would have thought that the ethics of your profession would require you to cooperate with any measures calculated to establish one. The purpose of this provision is precisely that.”
“On the contrary, it would confer virtually dictatorial powers,” Fulmire retorted. “There can be no validity in a legality established by illegal means.”
“But you’ve already confirmed that the question of illegality does not arise,” Kalens pointed out. “The emergency clauses apply until the elections have been held.”
“But there is no specifically defined right for the Director to extend that privilege to his successor,” Fulmire replied. “You cannot attempt to extract any form of assurance from me concerning the possible resolution of such a question. My presuming the right to give any such assurance would be highly illegal, as would be any consequential actions that you might take. I repeat, I have no more to say.”
“Then invoke the security provisions,” Borftein said, shifting in his chair from weariness with the whole business. “It’s a security matter, isn’t it? The Chironians have left it to us by default, and it’s their security at stake as well as ours. The Pagoda’s only two years away. Somebody’s got to take the helm in all this.”
Fulmire gestured over the books and documents spread across his desk. “The security provisions provide for Congress to vote exceptional powers to the Directorate in the event of demonstrable security demands, and for the Directorate to delegate extraordinary duties to the chief executive once they are voted that power. They do not provide for the chief executive to assume such duties for himself, and therefore neither can he do so for his successor.”
A short silence fell, and the deadlock persisted. Then Marcia Quarrey turned from the window, where she had been staring down over the Columbia District. “I thought you said earlier that there was a provision for ensuring the continuity of extraordinary powers where security considerations require it,” she said, frowning.
“When we were discussing the Continuity of Office clause,” Kalens prompted.
Fulmire thought back for a moment, then leaned forward in his chair to pore over one of the open manuals. “That was under ‘Emergency Situations,’ not ‘Security,’” he said after a few moments, without looking up. “Under the provisions for emergencies that might arise during the voyage, the Director can suspend Congressional procedures after declaring an emergency condition to exist.”
“Yes, we know that,” Quarrey agreed. “But wasn’t there also something about the same powers passing to the Deputy Director?”
Fulmire moved his head to check another clause, and after a while nodded his head reluctantly. “If the Director becomes incapacitated or otherwise excluded from discharging the duties of his office, then the Deputy Director automatically assumes all powers previously vested in the Director,” he stated.
Kalens raised his head sharply. “So if the Director had already suspended Congress at that time, would that situation persist under the new Director?” He thought for a moment, then added, “I would assume it must. Surely. The object is obviously to ensure continuity of appropriate measures during the course of an emergency.”
Fulmire looked uneasy but in the end was forced to nod his agreement. “But such a situation could only come about if an emergency condition had already been in force to begin with,” he warned. “It could not be applied in any way to the present circumstances.”
“You don’t think that a ship full of Asiatics coming at us armed to the teeth qualifies as an emergency?” Borftein asked sarcastically.
“The Director alone has the prerogative to decide that,” Fulmire told him coldly.
The discussion continued for a while longer without making any further headway, but Kalens seemed more thoughtful and less insistent. Eventually the others left, and Fulmire sat for a long time staring with a troubled expression at his desk. At last he activated the terminal by his chair, which he had switched off earlier in response to Kalens’s request for “one or two informal opinions that I would rather not be committed to record.”
“Which service?” the terminal inquired. “Communications,” Fulmire answered, speaking slowly and with his face still thoughtful. “Find Paul Lechat for me and put him through if he’s free, would you. And route this via a secured channel.”