Carnifex

25/10/462 AC, United Earth Peace Fleet Starship Spirit of Peace

The traditional Christmas orgy was in full swing on the hangar deck. Since it was supposed to be a time to celebrate universal brotherhood, even the proles were invited. Indeed, so universal was the sense of brotherhood implicit in the season that Lieutenant Commander Khan, the fleet's sociology officer, was laying, rear up and breasts down, on an ottoman with a prole at each end, one in each hand and short lines emanating in four directions. Khan's husband cheered her on. And why not? He had bet a month's salary on her performance for the night.

Sitting on a plain chair on an elevated dais, High Admiral Martin Robinson, Commander of the United Earth Peace Fleet, watched through his blue-gray eyes without much interest. In truth, Robinson was bored silly by the whole thing. It's as bad as a party back home. Same old faces, same old events . . . same old, same old. Bah. Never anything new.

Robinson had reason to be bored. Though he looked to be in his mid-twenties, face unlined and back unstooped, the High Admiral was a beneficiary of the best anti-agathic therapy Old Earth could provide. His blond hair was untouched by gray and without any recession in his hairline.

On the other hand, Robinson had had better than two centuries in which to grow bored, two centuries of peace, two centuries of orgies, two centuries of . . . Well . . . nothing, really. Nothing until I came here. This, at least, hasn't been boring. It's been frustrating.

Frustration wasn't the half of it. Mixed in, and perhaps in greater quantity than the frustration, was fear; fear for his class, fear for their rule, and fear for his planet.

And there's nothing for it but to change the cesspool down below from a near cognate of Earth, as it was, into a perfect clone of Earth, as it is. That, or plunge the whole thing into a Salafi sect dark age. Either would be acceptable. Indeed, having the planet fall under the Salafis would probably leave my world safer. Let them be content to pray five times a day to a non-existent god via a rock in a building in a nothing-too-much city. Let them keep better than half their people as cattle. Let them keep themselves poor and ignorant and, above all, incapable of space flight.

But if I fail, if the non-Salafi barbarians down below achieve interstellar travel, my home will be taken and pillaged, my class will be cast down, and my entire civilization will be plunged into barbarism. And Khan—here Robinson looked up to see that Khan was an easy half dozen partnerings ahead of her nearest competition—Khan assures me that when a civilization like that meets one like ours, ours hasn't a chance. If they can get to us, they can and will ruin us.

Unconsciously, Robinson lifted a thumb nail and began nervously to chew.

So I do what I must, dirty my hands, as I must, and fight . . . well, fight though others, of course; I can't risk the loss of my fleet. That, above all, I must preserve.

Robinson laughed at himself. I must preserve it until it falls apart around me. Preserve it while the Consensus back home does nothing to maintain it.

Dropping his thumb and shaking his head at the bloody damned frustration of it all, Robinson stood to leave the hangar deck. He'd call the captain of the ship, Marguerite Wallenstein, later, if he needed sex. For now he just needed to be alone.

Ahead of him, an oval hatchway dilated to permit the High Admiral passage. As the hatchway leading off the hangar deck whooshed shut behind him, Robinson heard Khan frantically pleading for more.