human-looking smile. “Merely because we strive for peace does not mean we do not prepare for war. We have our own servants among the traitors. I am assured that our gunstars, completely rebuilt and updated as they are now, acting under the command of the best Starfighters the League can muster, are more than a match for anything the Ko-Dan have built. If we react in time. We are still not entirely sure of how the traitors and the Ko-Dan plan to announce their intentions.” He gazed past them, through the glass wall, to the line of ships waiting in the immense hangar.
“So much intelligence, so much effort and energy, wasted on the restoration of antique war machines. Taken together they have not the elegance or permanence of a single song cycle.” He let his stare drop back down to the waiting pilots and crews.
“What a tragedy. To think that we have come so far, achieved so much, at the expense of our own defense. Because while we still possess these machines and the talent to improve them, the ability to utilize them in battle has been bred out of the majority during the long peace.
“Hence the exhaustive hunts which have brought you together here. Just as these vessels are reminders of our violent adolescence, so are you and the abilities you still retain. You see, you all are also relics. Few are left who can use these ships. Peace breeds contentment, and contentment stifles the fighting reflexes and urges and what we might call the, uh, gift of doing battle.
“Among the billions of citizens of the League, grown contented and easygoing over the centuries, only a few are left who still possess this gift. Only a few. You few.” He let that sink in before adding, “The future of our civilization, of the League itself, rests on you. You, the most extreme throwbacks, the most primitive and yet skilled among us. It is a talent I have no desire to possess. I pity you for it. I envy you for it. I salute you for it.”
A muffled cheer rose from the assembled fighters. Many of them were outcasts, social misfits on Rylos and the other worlds. Now that which caused them to be shunned was to be their redemption. After this war they would be regarded as saviors; not to be liked, perhaps, but to be respected. All looked forward to the forthcoming conflict.
All, that is, save one, who kept his thoughts to himself and wished desperately that he were elsewhere.
Enduran waited patiently for the cheering and the shudderingly robust war cries to die down. He’d been told by the psychologists to expect something of the kind, but still, to see such naked expressions of violence among citizens of the well-behaved League was a shock.
A fortunate one, though. Without such citizens there would be no chance of turning back the Ko-Dan incursion. He studied the many different visages and expressions and marveled at the similarities. The urge to combat, to fight, to kill, had been drained from the general population by hundreds of years of peace. Yet a residue of the ancient feelings still remained. He felt terribly sorry for all of them.
“You alone,” he went on, hating what he was doing, hating the carefully calculated manipulation of primitive emotions but at the same time knowing how necessary it was, “stand between the rest of us and the dark terror of the Ko-Dan. You alone must do what the rest of us can no longer do. You alone must place yourselves between civilization and chaos, between aspiration and anarchy. You alone must resist, must fight, must destroy!” The speech clogged his throat and he could say no more.
He didn’t have to. The speech, carefully designed by the amunopsychs, had precisely the effect on the gunstar pilots they’d intended it to. There was a unity of feeling running through the assembly now that transcended such trivialities as racial type and world or origin. These pilots and navigators were defectives, on whom Enduran’s words had a powerful effect.
“Victory or death!” shouted one
“So much intelligence, so much effort and energy, wasted on the restoration of antique war machines. Taken together they have not the elegance or permanence of a single song cycle.” He let his stare drop back down to the waiting pilots and crews.
“What a tragedy. To think that we have come so far, achieved so much, at the expense of our own defense. Because while we still possess these machines and the talent to improve them, the ability to utilize them in battle has been bred out of the majority during the long peace.
“Hence the exhaustive hunts which have brought you together here. Just as these vessels are reminders of our violent adolescence, so are you and the abilities you still retain. You see, you all are also relics. Few are left who can use these ships. Peace breeds contentment, and contentment stifles the fighting reflexes and urges and what we might call the, uh, gift of doing battle.
“Among the billions of citizens of the League, grown contented and easygoing over the centuries, only a few are left who still possess this gift. Only a few. You few.” He let that sink in before adding, “The future of our civilization, of the League itself, rests on you. You, the most extreme throwbacks, the most primitive and yet skilled among us. It is a talent I have no desire to possess. I pity you for it. I envy you for it. I salute you for it.”
A muffled cheer rose from the assembled fighters. Many of them were outcasts, social misfits on Rylos and the other worlds. Now that which caused them to be shunned was to be their redemption. After this war they would be regarded as saviors; not to be liked, perhaps, but to be respected. All looked forward to the forthcoming conflict.
All, that is, save one, who kept his thoughts to himself and wished desperately that he were elsewhere.
Enduran waited patiently for the cheering and the shudderingly robust war cries to die down. He’d been told by the psychologists to expect something of the kind, but still, to see such naked expressions of violence among citizens of the well-behaved League was a shock.
A fortunate one, though. Without such citizens there would be no chance of turning back the Ko-Dan incursion. He studied the many different visages and expressions and marveled at the similarities. The urge to combat, to fight, to kill, had been drained from the general population by hundreds of years of peace. Yet a residue of the ancient feelings still remained. He felt terribly sorry for all of them.
“You alone,” he went on, hating what he was doing, hating the carefully calculated manipulation of primitive emotions but at the same time knowing how necessary it was, “stand between the rest of us and the dark terror of the Ko-Dan. You alone must do what the rest of us can no longer do. You alone must place yourselves between civilization and chaos, between aspiration and anarchy. You alone must resist, must fight, must destroy!” The speech clogged his throat and he could say no more.
He didn’t have to. The speech, carefully designed by the amunopsychs, had precisely the effect on the gunstar pilots they’d intended it to. There was a unity of feeling running through the assembly now that transcended such trivialities as racial type and world or origin. These pilots and navigators were defectives, on whom Enduran’s words had a powerful effect.
“Victory or death!” shouted one
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