His eye caught the icon for the habitation section of Guiding Star. What were the aliens thinking over there? They’d lost most of their supplies and a vast number of warriors — and the female crew members who did all the supporting work in the background — but would they feel defeated? Would they seek terms, or would they try to continue the war? Even without the battle section, they were in a formidable position to just continue fighting… and perhaps they would win.
He looked over at Simon. “The war’s not over yet,” he said. “Your wife will have to wait a few hours longer.”
“Or forever,” Simon said, numbly. He’d finally married the girl only a week before being launched into space. “I hope she waits for me before starting the honeymoon.”
Gary laughed. “Hey, you’re going to be one of the most famous people on Earth,” he said, grinning. “Girls will be lining up to suck you off and offer themselves to you.” He allowed his grin to become a leer. “If you want my advice, you got married at the wrong time…”
“Sir, with the deepest respect, go fuck yourself,” Simon said. Gary found his laugh growing deeper, almost as if he couldn’t stop. “I love her…”
“And she’s going to be insisting on the pair of you travelling incognito,” Gary pressed. “If people find out who you are, you won’t have a moment’s peace.”
“Yeah, they’ll make me sign autographs,” Simon said. He looked down towards the icon of the alien craft. “What the hell are they doing over there?”
“I wish I knew,” Gary said, checking the updates from the other shuttles. One of them was too badly damaged to make it back to Earth, not without help… and the only people who could help them were the aliens. He wasn’t too sure about themselves, for that matter; the heat shield had been bubbling off under the impact of alien lasers. They might win the battle and disintegrate in Earth’s atmosphere. “I bet they’re wishing they knew too.”
“The Guiding Star has been destroyed, Mr President,” Paul said, formally. The room had erupted in cheers when the starship had disintegrated, but the habitation section remained at L4, completely out of reach. Femala swore blind that the habitation section had nothing in the way of weapons, but Paul distrusted that on principle; he would have armed both sections to the teeth. “The attack craft are preparing to engage the remaining parasite ships.”
“And they’ve said nothing?”
“They took some damage, but the remaining craft can continue with the mission,” Paul assured him. The download suggested that several of the craft were no longer fit for anything, but scrap, but they had to fight with what they had. “They can probably defeat the remaining parasite ships, but probably at the cost of mutual annihilation.”
The President shook his head. “I meant the aliens,” he said. “Are they not trying to talk to us?”
“Not yet, Mr President,” Paul said. The President stared at the display. He had to know, more than any of them, just how close the war was — still — to being lost. If the aliens decided to call it a draw and wreck the planet, the human race would be exterminated or, at the very least, knocked back down to barbarity. There were people, he ruefully acknowledged, who would claim that the human race had never climbed out of barbarism. “We don’t know what’s going on over there.”
He paused as a message came through his earpiece. “Femala thinks we probably killed the High Priest and most of their senior officers,” he added. The possible ramifications, now that the battle section was destroyed, were not good. “They might not have someone left in a clear and undisputed position of authority.”
“They’re a bloody hierarchy,” General Hastings commented. Like the rest of them, he’d been little more than a spectator, watching as the final battle was fought out high overhead. “They must have someone who can declare himself the new High Priest and issue orders.”
“They have several Under-Priests who are all equal in power and responsibility,” Paul said. “They might not have someone who can take over quickly.”
There was a long pause. “Mr President, we’re picking up a communications beam,” one of the operators said. “It’s being relayed through the attack craft. They want to talk.”
Paul saw the President’s face, a mixture of fear and hope. “We have to be careful,” Paul muttered. “They’re still dangerous, even without their battleship. We can’t afford to make a mistake.”
The President took the microphone. “This is the President of the United States of America,” he said. Paul found himself wondering, absurdly, if they knew who the President was, before dismissing the thought. They’d interrogated the diplomats back when the war had started; they had to know who the President was, even before they landed in Texas. The masses of political books had probably confused the hell out of them. “To whom am I speaking?”
There was a long pause. “This is Arbitrator Air Alinae,” the alien voice said, finally. Paul couldn’t help himself; he shivered. There was something utterly inhuman about the alien’s voice. The Arbitrator Air, one of the senior Arbitrators, the ones charged with keeping a check on the High Priest’s power, subject only to the Inquisitors. “I wish to discuss a general halt in place and a truce between our two powers. On whose behalf do you speak?”
The President wasn’t fazed by the question. “I speak on behalf of the people of the United States of America and a number of other nations that have allied to defeat you,” he said, flatly. Paul was relieved that he mentioned no names; the aliens might have a good idea of who else they needed to bomb, but they might hesitate without clear proof. “What terms do you propose?”
There was a second pause, longer than the minute time delay would account for. “We are willing to stand down and hold in place,” the alien said. “We would not seek to expand our footholds on your lands and settle further of our people there.”
The President looked sharply at Paul. “He wants to keep Texas and Australia,” Paul said. “We can’t allow them to hold on to Texas…”
“We have a duty to the Australians as well, and the Iraqis,” Spencer put in. “They’re our allies!”
Deborah leaned forward. “We need to get them out of Texas, but do we have the leverage to get them out of anywhere else?”
“No,” General Hastings said grimly. “It’s going to take us years to repair the country and rebuild our military to the pre-invasion levels. We might be able to keep fighting in Texas indefinitely, but we can barely get to the Middle East and Australia.”
The President was appalled. “You mean we have to write them off?”
Paul hated to admit it, but there was little choice. “We cannot get the aliens out of there,” he said. “If we continue the war, we might lose anyway… or see the entire human race destroyed in the crossfire.”
“But that would mean abandoning our allies to the aliens,” Spencer protested. “They won’t be able to escape alien domination.”
“Perhaps,” Paul said. He smiled suddenly, remembering how the prisoners had reacted to human society. There was no way to know — yet — but he would bet good money that the alien society they’d seek to establish on Earth wouldn’t last longer than a few years. “We can help them, covertly.”
The President lifted a hand for silence. “This is the President,” he said, keying the microphone. “We require the evacuation of the Texas settlement and occupation forces as part of the agreement.”