Now, it seemed to Pirius, Rehabilitation officers were expressing concern about Nilis’s Project, not in case it failed, but if it succeeded. Would it actually be moral to end this war? The entire human economy of the Galaxy was devoted to the war: if it ever ended, the resulting dislocation would be huge. And without the war’s unifying discipline, how could central control be maintained? There would be riots; there would be starvation; whole worlds would break away from the light of the Coalition and fall into an anarchic darkness.
One dry academic even suggested that a true reading of Hama Druz’s writings showed that that ancient sage had been arguing, not for the conquest of the Galaxy, but for the continual cleansing of unending conflict. The war had to go on, until a perfect killing machine had been forged from imperfect mankind. Of course victory was the ultimate goal, but a victory too soon could imperil that great project of the unity of a purified species…
Torec and Pirius were amazed. But since they had come to Sol system, it wasn’t the first time they had heard people actually argue against victory.
Pirius thought he could see what was really going on here, beneath the dry academic discussions. These ancient agencies weren’t concerned for the myriad people in their care; they were only concerned about their own survival. If the war went away, he thought with a strange thrill, any justification for the continuance of the Coalition itself, and its Galaxy full of ideological cops, would vanish. And then what?
Perhaps he was growing cynical.
The session overran its allotted time. At last Gramm banged his gavel, and ordered the committee to reconvene in the morning.
While they had talked, the planet had spun on its axis, taking Conurbation 11729 and its busy inhabitants into its shadow.
Nilis’s party was assigned quarters on a residential floor of the huge building. The room given to Torec and Pirius seemed impossibly luxurious. After a while, they stripped blankets off the too-soft beds, making themselves a nest on the floor.
But a bot called, sent by Nilis. It contained some technical updates Gramm had requested, and Pirius,
as Nilis’s representative, was to accompany the bot to the Minister’s office. Reluctantly Pirius allowed his uniform to slither back into place over his body.
The bot led the way through a maze of carpeted corridors to the Minister’s office.
Pirius had been expecting opulence. The room was richer than anything he had seen at Arches Base, of course — and a lot richer than Nilis’s apartment, for instance. The carpet on the floor was a thick pile, and even the walls were covered by some kind of heavily textured paper.
But the room was windowless: that was significant, as Pirius had learned that the most prized rooms in any Conurbation-dome building had window views. And this was a working room. The only furniture was a desk, a small conference table, and chairs — and a couch, upholstered with maroon fabric and laden with cushions, on which rested the great bulk of the Minister of Economic Warfare himself.
Gramm had kicked his shoes off, and loosened his robe. Lying there, his stomach had spread out like a sack of mercury, and his jowly face was slack and tired. A table floated at Gramm’s right hand; Pirius could smell spicy food. Bots and small Virtual displays hovered around Gramm’s head, and voices whispered, constantly updating the Minister on whatever was happening in the corners of his complex world. Gramm’s fat hand dug into the plates, but he never so much as glanced at what he was pushing into his mouth. Pirius had never seen the Minister look so deflated, so exhausted.
It seemed to take the Minister a long time to notice the ensign standing to attention at the door. He snapped, “Oh, come in, boy, come in. I won’t bite. Not you, anyhow.”
Pirius stepped forward. “Sir, I’ve come to deliver—”
“A message, I know, from your ragged-robed master. Well, you’ve done it.” He looked away and continued to eat.
Pirius waited awkwardly. He was becoming used to these nonmilitary types with their ignorance of protocol, but he was reluctant to move until he was dismissed. Maybe he’d be left standing here all night.
At length Gramm noticed him. “You still here? I suppose it’s been a difficult day for you. Must all be very strange.” He guffawed. “Though it was a delicious moment when you told that pompous old fool Kolo Yehn that he had an inferiority complex about the Xeelee. Hah! I’ll have to make sure that’s highlighted in the minute.”
Pirius felt color rise in his cheeks. “I was only speaking my mind. Sir.”
Gramm eyed him, chewing. “Lethe, you’re a spirited one. Look, Ensign, I can imagine what you think of me.” He brushed crumbs from his vast belly. “I can see myself through your eyes.”
“I have no personal opinions, sir.”
“Oh, garbage. But what you perhaps don’t see — look here. Do you know what my job is?”
“You’re Minister of—”
“That’s my role. My function is to prosecute this damn war. I take the strategic goals of the Coalition as a whole and turn them into operational goals. Maybe you’ve seen today that given the infighting that goes on at every level, even at the highest reaches of the Coalition, those strategic goals aren’t always clear. But that’s the principle.
“Now, all the time I am bombarded.” He waved a hand, and the bots and Virtuals around his couch swarmed like insects. “I have whole teams of experts, advisors, lobby groups, all battling for my ear, even within my own Ministry. And then, of course, there are the other agencies beyond Economic Warfare to be dealt with — negotiated with, beaten back, soothed. And all of this against the background of the war.” He sighed and pushed more food into his mouth. “The war, the damn war. It’s more than just a theater for heroic exploits by boy heroes like you, Ensign. You know, you’re lucky, out there in the Core. All you have to think about is your comrades, your ship, your own hide. I have to think of the bigger picture — of all the millions of little Piriuses running around and hunting for glory.”
He propped himself up on his elbow. “And here’s that bigger picture. We’ve beaten back the Xeelee. We’ve pushed them out of the disc of the Galaxy. It’s been an epochal achievement. But they still lurk in the Galaxy’s Core. We have them bottled up there — but the cost of that containment is huge. We have turned the whole Galaxy into a machine, a single vast machine dedicated to a single goal: to keeping the Xeelee trapped. It’s dreadful, it’s costly — it’s working. But I have to be parsimonious with my resources.
“Now, whether you see it or not — and no matter what that old monster Luru Parz says — we’ve been responsible with your project so far. We’ve tried to apply resources sensibly, commensurate with the successes you’ve actually achieved, bit by bit as the concept has been proved. But now we’re being asked to take a much greater leap of faith. You might think a couple of dozen greenships isn’t much in a war that spans a Galaxy. You might think you’re under excessive scrutiny — that you’re being opposed, arbitrarily, through the mechanism of the funding. Perhaps some do have such a motive. But for me it’s not like that. We’re stretched thin, Ensign, thinner than you might understand. Even a single ship, lost unnecessarily, might make the difference, might cause it all to unravel. That’s the great fear — and Nilis’s is only one of a hundred, a thousand such requests I have to deal with right now. Do you see what you’re asking me to risk, if we commit to Nilis’s madcap jaunt?”
“You fear that if we draw resources away, the Front could collapse.”
“Yes. And if the Xeelee were to punch out of there, we’d be lost; they would surely never allow us to establish a position of dominance again. Nilis isn’t unique, you know. Especially in the Commission, there are many corners, lots of bits of unaccounted-for funding — plenty of places for the likes of Nilis to dream their dreams.”