is.”
“Sir? I don’t understand.”
“The history of military history, Captain. We get brand-new rifled weapons capable of killing men at a range of two or three hundred meters, and we still form tightly packed and ordered ranks and march in with the bayonet. We get machine guns, we still try massed assaults into no-man’s land, or even on horseback. We develop large-scale suborbital deployment, and we still pretend that war has front lines. You’re saying we need the old way of doing things, now?”
“In a way, yes, sir,” Schilling said. “When we started exploring out among the stars, we continued to think in terms of the nation-states and countries we’d known on Earth. When we met alien cultures, we tried to put them into the nice, neat boxes with which we’d been familiar on our homeworld. Empires and federations, unions and republics and commonwealths.”
“And associatives?”
“The Associative is an attempt to think in bigger, less exclusive terms,” she told him. “No empires. No borders. No ‘us’ and ‘them,’ just an all-embracing us. And no need to compete for scarce resources in a Galaxy where resources like planets and energy are all but boundless.”
“No borders. What does that mean? …”
Schilling gestured. A star turned bright on the projection of the Galaxy, then expanded swiftly into an open window looking down on an achingly beautiful, sapphire-blue and white world. It was, Garroway realized, the same view of Eris he’d seen upon emerging from cybe-hibe. “There are some hundreds of thousands of species in the Associative,” she told him, “and millions throughout the Galaxy. Relatively few of them, though, have the same requirements when it comes to habitable worlds.” Another window opened within the window, and Garroway stared into six vast, black eyes set above and below a squirming halo of tentacles. The overall impression was of something like a giant squid, but it was difficult to pull all the parts together into a coherent whole, into something that made sense to his brain.
Even so, he recognized the species, for Humankind had met them in 2877, three decades before he’d been born. “The Eulers?” he asked.
“The Eulers,” Schilling agreed. “They prefer worlds like Earth … but at extreme depths, a thousand meters or more down in the deep benthic abyss. They genegineered a symbiotic species that could survive on land, to develop fire and industry and space travel. They helped us win the Battle of Starwall, and since then they’ve been among our closest allies. Incredible natural mathematicians. They’ve colonized perhaps two hundred worlds scattered throughout Associative space. Their latest project is this one … Eris, a newly terraformed world right here in Earth’s Solar System. Or, here’s an even better example …” She gestured again, and the images of Eris and the deep-sea Euler vanished, replaced by a world completely sheathed in dazzlingly white clouds … with just a hint of a dirty yellow cast to them. A second window opened within, showing … something. At first, Garroway thought he was looking at a crust of black, hardened lava, with streaks and veins of molten rock just visible beneath, glowing dull red. After a moment, he realized the black mass had a shape, albeit an irregular one, and things like flexible branches weaving in a searingly hot breeze.
If it was a sapient species, Garroway had never seen or heard of anything like it. He wasn’t even immediately sure that it was alive. The image shimmered and bent, as if viewed at a great depth, or within the fiery hell of a blast furnace. The background was a sulfurous red and yellow haze, obscuring vaguely glimpsed shapes that might have been spires of native rocks, or buildings.
“We call them Vulcans,” Schilling explained. “We don’t know what they call themselves. Their cultural conventions, their view of self, their worldview, all are quite different from ours. But they live within volcanic fissures on worlds like Venus. Surface temperature hot enough to melt lead, and an atmospheric pressure similar to what the Eulers enjoy. We were actually looking at the feasibility of terraforming Venus—a colossal project—but a couple of hundred years ago the Vulcans petitioned us to let them colonize instead. They live there now and like it, at pressures equivalent to the ocean deeps.”
Garroway stared at the black mass, which was oozing now into a slightly different shape. Did it have a native shape, or was it more of a crust-locked amoeba? He couldn’t tell. Were those branches manipulative members of some sort, or sensory organs, or something else entirely? Again, he couldn’t tell. “How can you trust them if you don’t even know what they call themselves?”
“The point is, General, they don’t want our kind of real estate. We have almost nothing in common with them. It’s far, far easier to terraform an outer dwarf planet like Eris or Sedna than it is to cool down a planet like Venus and give it a reasonable surface pressure, an atmosphere we could breathe. So they live on Venus, the Eulers live in Eris—they even have a small colony now in Tongue-of-the-Ocean, on Earth—and we’re scarcely aware of their activities. No borders. What would be the point?”
“Security. But I see what you mean about war being out of date,” he told her.
He wasn’t convinced that that could be true, however. Garroway tended to have a pessimistic view of human nature, one forged within a long career as a combat Marine and, as a general officer with dealing with politicians. In his opinion, Humankind could no more give up war than he could give up the ability to think.
“A war with the Eulers or the Vulcans is almost literally unthinkable,” she told him. “But the Xul aren’t competing for resources. They simply want us dead.”
“Of course. We’ve triggered their xenophobic reflex.”
“Exactly, sir. If the containment strategy isn’t working … and if they’re becoming more aware of us, well, we need you and your people, General. Like never before.”
As she spoke, Garroway was scanning through more of the download background and history. Civilians, including humans, had been attacked by locals in a gas giant called Dac IV. Anchor Marines had been sent in—the 340th Marine Strike Squadron. The situation was still unresolved, but it must be desperate. A request for a Globe Marine detachment had also been logged.
“What in hell,” he said slowly, “is an ‘Anchor Marine?’?”
“Marines who stay with the time stream,” she told him. “Like me.”
“And I’m a ‘Globe Marine?’?”
“Yes, sir. Our reserves in cybe-hibe.”
“Who thought up that nonsense?”
“Sir?”
“Marines are Marines, Captain. I don’t like this idea of two different sets of background, experience, or training.”
Here was another problem. Two months ago, a star lord at a place, an artificial habitat called Kaleed, had run into something he couldn’t handle, and requested Marines. No Anchor Marines had been available, and so the Lords of the Associative had decided to awaken a division of Globe Marines.
Apparently the third Marine Division was to be held on stand-by as the Lords monitored the situation.
“It was necessary, General,” Schilling explained. “Globe Marines need cultural liaisons, other Marines who are, well, anchored in the current background culture. Otherwise you’d be lost. There have been a lot of changes in both cultural norms and in technology since your day.”
“You’re
