Carthago Delenda Est

Fludenoc stared down at him. The Medic’s flat, golden eyes stared back.

“Do not not mind me,” the Medic suddenly trilled. “I am just just a bystander. Interested bystander.”

The Medic gazed down at the corpse of the Voivode. “I always always wondered what the worm’s blood looked like.” He trilled pure pleasure. “Never never thought I’d find out.”

Uddumac interrupted.

“Explain, Fludenoc. I obeyed your command because you are the flarragun of our Poct’on cartouche. But now that the action is finished, I have a full right to demand an accounting.”

Fludenoc decided the Medic was no immediate problem, either. He turned to face Uddumac and the other Gha in the chamber.

“I gave the command because our opportunity has finally arrived.”

“What opportunity?” asked the Gha holding the Medic.

Fludenoc’s whole upper torso swiveled to face his questioner. For all its immense strength, the Gha physique was not limber. Evolved on a heavy-gravity planet, Gha necks were almost completely rigid.

“You know perfectly well what opportunity, Oltomar. The same opportunity the Poct’on has been searching for since it was founded.”

Oltomar’s response was a quick, wavering hiss.

Fludenoc, understanding the subtleties in that hiss, felt a sudden surge of bitter anger. His anger, and his bitterness, were not directed toward Oltomar. They were directed at the universe, in general; and galactic civilization, in particular.

The same evolutionary necessities which had produced the rigid upper vertebra of the Gha species, had also produced their stiff, unmoving faces. The bleak, wind-scoured, heavy planet where Gha had originated was merciless. No soft, supple, flexible animals could survive there-only creatures which presented a hard shield to the world, and thereby withstood its heavy lashes.

Intelligence, when it came to that planet, came in a suitable form. A form which, when other intelligences discovered them-more technologically advanced intelligences, but not smarter ones-could see nothing beyond the stiff shield of Gha faces. And the immense strength of Gha bodies.

The Gha were famed-notorious-among all the intelligent races of the galaxy. They were the epitome of the stolid dullwit. Only the Gha themselves knew of their i

Only the Gha knew of their poetry. To galactic civilization-to the Doge Species which ruled that civilization-the Gha were nothing more than splendid thugs. The galaxy’s premier goons.

Fludenoc shook off the anger. (Literally. His fellows, watching, understood the nuances of that shoulder movement as perfectly as he had understood the skepticism in Oltomar’s hiss.)

“I’m quite serious, Oltomar. Even before this incident, I thought the Romans were the best possibility we had ever encountered.”

“Too primitive,” interjected Uddumac. “We talked it about, you and I, long ago.”

Uddumac gestured to the Voivode’s corpse on the floor. “The first time we had the misfortune of being assigned to this worm. We talked about it, then, and we reached a common conclusion. For all their astonishing competence, the Romans were simply too primitive. Barbarians, to all intents and purposes.”

Oltomar chimed in. Again, literally. The chime-syllable which prefaced his words was a Gha way of expressing agreement.

“Yes. Nothing’s changed simply because they managed to seize their troop transport. If they seized it. I’m not sure the worm’s theory was correct, but even if it is-so what? The Romans are still barbarians. The Poct’on has always known that-”

Fludenoc silenced him with a gesture. Left hand before his face, palm outward, fingers spread. Stop-I must interrupt.

“You’re missing the significance of the new data,” he said. “That’s why I gave the order to kill them.” His next gesture-right hand turned aside, waist high, fingers curled against the thumb-was the Gha expression of apology.

“That’s also why I didn’t wait until we had an opportunity to discuss the matter, as a Poct’on cartouche would normally do. I had to stop the Pilot from transmitting anything to Guild Headquarters. I’m hoping the Federation itself doesn’t understand the significance of the meteorological report. The Guilds may still not know of it at all.”

The other three Gha in the room were silent. Their stiff postures, to anyone but Gha, would have made them seem like statues. But Fludenoc understood their confusion and puzzlement.

To his surprise, the Pilot suddenly spoke. Fludenoc had almost forgotten her presence.

“Are you talking about the radio signals?” she asked.

Fludenoc swiveled to face her. The Pilot froze with instinctive fear, but her color remained close to purple. “I’m s-sorry,” she stammered, in Gha. “I didn’t mean-”

“I did not realize you spoke our language,” said Fludenoc.

Then, sadly (though only a Gha would have sensed it in his tone):

“I am not angry at you for interrupting me, Pilot. Among ourselves, we consider conversation a fine art. Interruption is part of its pleasure.”

The Pilot’s shade developed a pinkish undertone. “I know. I have listened to you, sometimes, when you versified each other in your chamber. I thought the poetry was quite good. Although I’m sure I missed most of the nuances.”

Now, all four Gha were staring at the Pilot. And it took no Gha subtlety to realize that they were all absolutely astonished.

“You are not the only people in the galaxy,” the Pilot said softly, “who mourn for what might have been.”

She shifted her footskirt, turning away from Fludenoc to face the other Gha. “I do not think you grasp the importance of those radio signals. The reason the Voivode was so indignant was because he understood that, if the data is accurate, it means that the Romans-or, at least, the human species which produced them-are no longer barbarians. They have reached industrial chain reaction.”

“What in Creation are radio?” demanded Oltomar. “And why is it important?”

The Pilot hesitated. Again, Fludenoc barked humor.

“He is not actually an ignoramus, Pilot, appearances to the contrary. It’s just that, like most Gha, his education was oriented toward practical matters. His knowledge of history is sadly deficient.”

Beyond a mildly irritated inhalation, Oltomar did not argue the point. Fludenoc made a gesturing motion to the Pilot. Continue.

“Radio is a part of the electromagnetic spectrum,” she explained. “Very far toward the low frequency end. Modern civilization doesn’t have any real use for those bands. But in the early stages of industrial chain reaction, it is always the first avenue by which rising civilizations conquer electromagnetism. For a short period of time, such planets project radio waves into the galaxy. The waves are very weak, of course, and undirected, so they are quickly lost in the galaxy’s background noise. If the Federation Meteorological Survey hadn’t been keeping that portion of the galaxy under close observation because of the Transit storm, those signals would never have been noticed.”

Uddumac interrupted. “You are saying that humans have achieved civilization?”

“Yes. There can be no natural explanation for such radio signals. And only a civilized species can project radio signals powerful enough to be picked up at interstellar distances.”

“What level of civilization?” demanded Oltomar. “Class One or Two? Or even-Doge?”

“There’s no way to tell without-”

“The distinction is critical!” Oltomar’s statement was almost a shout. “It’s absolutely critical.”

The Pilot froze. Fludenoc interposed himself between her and Oltomar. She was actually in no physical danger at all, but her species tended to panic quickly. His protective presence would enable her to relax.

“Stop bullying her, Oltomar,” he said quietly. “She has no way of answering your question-without us making the journey to that planet. Which is precisely what I propose to do.”