James P. Hogan - The Legend That Was Earth

The Legend That Was Earth

by James P. Hogan

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or

incidents is purely coincidental.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-671-31945-0

Cover art by Dru Blair

First printing, October 2000

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hogan, James P.

The legend that was Earth / James P. Hogan.

p. cm.

“A Baen Books original”—T.p. verso

ISBN 0-671-31945-0

1. Human–alien encounters—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6058.O348 L4 2000

823’.914—dc21 00-042926

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

BAEN BOOKS by JAMES P. HOGAN

Inherit the Stars

The Genesis Machine

The Gentle Giants of Ganymede

The Two Faces of Tomorrow

Giants’ Star

Voyage from Yesteryear

Code of the Lifemaker

The Proteus Operation

Endgame Enigma

The Mirror Maze

The Infinity Gambit

Entoverse

The Multiplex Man

Realtime Interrupt

Minds, Machines & Evolution

The Immortality Option

Paths to Otherwhere

Bug Park

Star Child

Rockets, Redheads & Revolution

Cradle of Saturn

The Legend That Was Earth

Thrice Upon a Time (forthcoming)

PROLOGUE

SUNDAY WAS CLOUDY BUT WARM in Washington, D.C. The crowd below the Capitol steps,

extending westward along the Mall, numbered over ten thousand and was still growing. Although many

were colorfully arrayed in summer garb with a sprinkling of coats and jackets, its mood was ugly. Banners

displayed above the forest of raised arms, fists punching skyward in unison, proclaimed contingents from

individual states. The most highly represented were those like California, Texas, Illinois, heavily

dependent on advanced-technology industries. Other banners being waved in the foreground before the

news cameras panning over the scene protested: ALIEN PAYOFFS MEAN EARTH LAYOFFS; another: NO TO

FARDEN SELLOUT; and: DEMAND TRADE CONTROL. To one side near the front, a black female agitator in

red leather and braids was leading a group chanting militantly: “Fuck you!/Where’s ours too?” Riot police

looked on from the sides, with vehicles and reserves being held back on Canal Street and Louisiana

Avenue.

From the podium at the top of the steps, flanked by grim-faced figures in suits and a few military

uniforms behind a cordon of police armed with shields and batons, the speaker who had been repeatedly

interrupted leaned toward the microphone again.

“Will you people hear me out? . . . Is a little bit of common decency and courtesy too much to

ask? . . . What I’m saying is that things are not the way you think. The contraction of some businesses and

industries is natural and inevitable when two diverse cultures come into contact. It spells even greater

opportunities opening up in other areas—areas where the things we’re better at will be uniquely favored.”

Somebody with a bullhorn replied from among the crowd. “That’s bullshit.”

The voice of the police commissioner in charge of crowd control came over loudspeakers set up on

pylons: “THIS IS THE LAST TIME. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER WARNINGS.”

The speaker resumed. “To suggest that our economy is being sold off piecemeal is an emotionally

motivated misrepresentation of the facts. The facts are—”

“Tell it to the Bolivians,” the bullhorn responded.

Somebody at the front, a TV camera trained directly on him, raised both arms wide to draw attention

and shouted, “Why won’t Farden come out and speak for himself? We know he’s in there. What’s he

afraid of?”

“Senator Farden is—”

“Selling us out,” the bullhorn completed. A roar went up to endorse the judgment. The speaker at the

podium looked in the direction of the senior police and Internal Security Service officers watching and

shook his head helplessly. The commissioner nodded to an aide, who gave orders into a hand phone. From

among the police massed on the lawns bordering Independence Avenue came a helmeted snatch squad in

gas masks. Flailing batons and using their shields as battering rams, they plowed through the crowd

toward the spot where surveillance cameras had located the bullhorn. Some of the crowd closed

protectively around the target, while others assailed the snatch team with bottles and other missiles.

Reinforcements moved in; figures began falling, others retreating, and within seconds mêlées were

breaking out across the entire scene. An angry surge pressed back the cordon guarding the Capitol steps.

Above, the police helicopter that had been circling came in lower. The commissioner signaled, and

security agents began herding the speaker and entourage back toward the doors into the building. Armored

cars with mesh-protected windows nosed out from the side streets. Through the rising clamor, the flat

plops sounded of gas grenades bursting where the clashes were fiercest, followed by figures falling back,

coughing and retching amid clouds of white vapor.

Senator Joel Farden from Virginia watched darkly from a window in one of the rooms of the Capitol.

He had said there was no point trying to reason with a crowd in that mood. People with no concepts

beyond immediate gratification or waiting passively for a better investment to pay off would never be

possessors of anything worthwhile to bargain with. Therefore, inevitably, they were the first to lose out in

any reshuffle. There was nothing anyone could do; it was the way things were and had always been. The

exploitation they complained about was in their genes, just as it was in those of others to come out on top.

Trying to deny what everyone had to know deep down was obvious could only result in the denial and

rage that they were seeing. Now the mess would take years, probably, to work itself out. Then somebody

else with delusions would start demanding fairness for all, and the pattern would go on as it always had.

Unless those with the power to do so changed the system. Orderliness and discipline. The Hyadeans had

the right idea.

Below the window, knots of demonstrators broke through the police cordon and started scrambling up

the steps toward the building. A squad that had been kept in the rear moved forward, equipped with back-

mounted devices connected to nozzles. They resembled flame throwers but fired a white stream that

turned into an expanding foam engulfing the oncoming rioters. In moments, the foam congealed into an

elastic, adhesive mass, inside which the forms of victims could be seen struggling ineffectually. Those

immediately behind fell back, while howls of outrage came from farther back. On both sides of the Mall

violence intensified as groups trying to flee the area ran into police reserves moving in. An intense, low-

pitched drone that seemed to fill the air came from outside, rattling the window, vibrating the structure of

the building, and churning Farden’s stomach even at that distance, making him feel mildly dizzy and

nauseated. Across the Mall, figures were screaming and clutching their ears, others doubling over and

vomiting. A hand gripped his shoulder. He turned. It was Purlow, the ISS security agent assigned for

Farden’s personal protection.

“I’m sorry, Senator, but speeches are over for today. The whole situation’s deteriorating. We’re getting

you and the general out early. The flyer is waiting now. This way please, sir.”

Farden hesitated briefly, then nodded. He followed Purlow back through the suite of rooms, across a

marbled hall, and down a stairway to one of the entrances on the far side of the building. A secretary was

waiting with his briefcase and topcoat among the group of officials, uniformed officers, and several

Hyadeans in the vestibule. Farden took them from her just as Lieutenant General Meakes appeared with

his own small personal retinue. Meakes was another figure that the agitators had demonized and the mobs

loved to hate. Farden had never really seen the connection, since Meakes didn’t have a financial angle,

stayed out of politics, and had always confined himself to Army matters. But since when had truth or

concern about character defamation troubled political terrorists when they saw an opportunity?

Edmund Kovansky, from the White House staff, seemed to be organizing things. “You were right,

Joel,” he said as Farden approached. “This was ill-conceived from the start. I guess we’ll be having a

moratorium and plan-of-action meeting out at Overly later.” Farden would be going back to Overly Park,

the Maryland estate where he was staying while visiting Washington. It was owned by a financier called

Eric York, who was part of Farden’s social and business circle. There was little gratification in being told

that just at this moment. Not bothering to reply, Farden stepped forward in the direction of the doorway,

following Meakes and another officer who it seemed would be traveling with him. Kovansky caught him

with a gesture indicating two of the Hyadeans. “And there’s a last-minute addition,” Kovansky said.

“These two want to go with you, if that’s okay. They have business with Eric.”

Farden paused long enough to return a shrug. “Sure. Why not?” It was their flyer, after all.

Surrounded by a security escort, the party left the building and walked briskly across the open area of

grass and trees separating the Capitol from the Supreme Court and Library of Congress, which had been

blocked off by police barricades. The Hyadean flyer was waiting among an assortment of official vehicles

and several black-painted ISS helicopters. Dull silver, about the size of a typical hotel courtesy bus, it had

the form of a flattened ellipsoid blending into stub wings toward the stern, with a tail fin and several

streamlined nacelles and bulges. There were no crew stations, operation being fully automatic, and no

nozzles or visible propulsion unit. Farden climbed the steps unfolding down over the port wing root and

entered behind Meakes and the other officer, with the two Hyadeans following. The interior was typically

Hyadean: stark and utilitarian, with seats and decor of uniform gray making some concession to comfort,

but beyond that not a hint of pattern, contrast, or ornamentation to relieve the drabness. Hyadean minds

just didn’t work that way.

The occupants settled themselves in; moments later, the door closed soundlessly, and the vehicle lifted

off. One of the Hyadeans said something, and two of the cabin’s upper wall panels became transparent to

admit a tinted view of the cloud bank enlarging and taking on detail as the flyer climbed; at the same time,

a screen at the forward end activated to present a downward-looking view of the turmoil among the

crowds along the east end of the Mall and the surrounding streets.

Farden studied the two aliens in a detached kind of way as they peered at the screen—they had been

around long enough, and he had seen enough of them by now, not to be unduly curious. They were tall

and blockish in build, with square-cut features like the heroes of old-time comic strips, giving their faces a

squashed look, and skin color ranging from purple to light blue-gray. Their generally humanoid form had

caused consternation among scientific ranks when they first came to Earth, because according to the then

prevailing theories such similarity resulting from separate evolutionary processes unfolding in isolation

shouldn’t have been possible. The matter had been one of indifference to Farden, who had never paid

much attention to scientific theories anyway, and as far as he knew it still wasn’t settled. Their hair came

in all manner of hues, the two present on this occasion having glossy black showing blue highlights in one

case, and a dull coppery red in the other, both trimmed in the standard Hyadean manner. And both wore

the familiar tunic-like garb, plain in color, one drab green, the other brown, purely functional, devoid of

decoration or appeal to aesthetic styling.

They exchanged utterances in their own language. Then the black-haired one spoke down toward his

breast pocket. A voice replied in Hyadean, but including recognizably the words “very long.” Hyadeans

carried a kind of pocket Artificial Intelligence that acted as a secretary and librarian, and could help them

with language translation and other matters. Terrans called the device a “veebee,” standing for voxbox.

The Hyadean explained to the three Terrans:

“My companion is not here, at Earth, for very long. The ways are new and strange. At Chryse, people

acting like that would be . . .” He consulted his veebee again. “Unthinkable.” Chryse was the Hyadeans’

home world, a planet of the hitherto unnamed star Amaris, in the vicinity of the constellations Hyades and

the Pleiades, in the sign of Taurus.

“That word tends to suggest disapproval,” Meakes commented. “That he doesn’t agree.”

The Hyadean who had spoken conversed briefly with the red-headed one. “He does not approve. He

asks how leaders can function.”

“Tell him we agree on that,” Farden said, at the same time praying inwardly that this stunted attempt at

conversation wouldn’t endure all through the flight.

“One reason we are here is that we educate . . .” (the veebee interjected something) “to educate Earth in

organizing a system that will avoid such things. That way means wealth and peace for all. As is true for

Hyadean worlds.”

Meakes nodded. “I’ll say amen to that.”

“Excuse me. I am not familiar with ‘amen’ in this context,” the veebee’s voice said from the black-

haired Hyadean’s breast pocket.

“It means . . . True? Truly?” Meakes looked at Farden and the other Army officer inquiringly. They

returned shrugs. “Anyhow, I agree with that too,” he said.

“Thanks. Noted,” the veebee acknowledged.

The black-haired Hyadean waved to indicate the interior of the vehicle. “And we will make Terrans

into better scientists, so maybe one day you build craft like these too.” What most people considered

“tact” wasn’t exactly the aliens’ strongest point. When they felt superior or considered themselves to be at

an advantage in some respect, they made sure to let everyone know. Farden nodded noncommittally. The

exchange continued bravely for a minute or so more and then died, and the occupants lapsed into talk in

lowered tones with their own kind.

Farden leaned back against the rubbery headrest and thought over what his position would be later at

the meeting Kovansky had alluded to, in the light of the day’s events. At least the seats were of alien

proportions, which was an improvement over a lot of traveling accommodations that he had endured.

Another reason for preferring to use Hyadean vessels whenever possible was that the on-board defenses

were fast and accurate enough to stop any Terran-produced missile before it got closer than ten miles, or a

ground-launched shot from immediately below within a second of firing. With political terrorists in the

U.S. taking on the regular military now, and acquiring all kinds of weapons, one couldn’t take too many

precautions. . . .

Unfortunately, the bolt of plasma fired from below when the flyer was twelve miles north of the city

came from a weapon that wasn’t Terran, and the radars on Hyadean vessels fitted for Earth duty were

designed only to look for missiles. It hit the flyer dead center, vaporizing it instantly.

CHAPTER ONE

ROLAND CADE STOOD on the boat dock at the rear of his waterfront villa on an inlet at Newport

Beach, taking a moment off from the preparations inside the house to enjoy the cool air and admire the

embers of a flaming California sunset. Lights were beginning to show from the other homes across the

narrow waterway and among the moored boats, reflecting off the barely rippling surface. A mild breeze

brought the aroma of steaks being barbecued somewhere. On the inland side, clouds of starlings were

rising and wheeling in their last sortie of the day. For some people, life was good.

Warren Edmonds, the skipper of Cade’s ninety-foot motor yacht Sassy Lady, appeared on the foredeck

and came down to join Cade on the dock. He was wirily muscular, with lean features that a shock of black

hair receding at the temples seemed to throw into hard-lined relief. Edmonds had managed boats large and

small, corporate and private, from Seattle to San Diego. He ran a number of enterprises of his own—some

of which were quasi-legal at best—which Cade didn’t ask about, hence working for Cade suited him. And

Cade’s numerous legal contacts and acquaintances who owed him favors could be useful at times.

“Everything set and standing by, if we decide to go,” he told Cade. Given the balmy condition of the

evening, Cade was considering moving the party out onto the water later if the general mood so inclined.

“Did Henry bring out the extra case of Chardonnay?”

“Yes, it’s in the cooler.”

“No sudden changes expected in the weather?”

“I checked about fifteen minutes ago. It’s gonna be calm like this all night, somewhere in the low

sixties. Maybe a little cloud tomorrow. Nothing that’ll change your day.”

Cade showed his palms. “The gods are smiling, Warren.”

“I guess we must have done something right lately.” Edmonds sighed in a way that said he couldn’t

think what, but to make the best of it. “Did their flight get out on time—with all the trouble in Washington

earlier?”

“The Web said it did when Luke checked, just before he left to go meet them. I don’t think Andrews

was affected. Vrel would have let us know by now if there were any changes. . . .” Cade looked back as

Henry’s voice called from the house to see if he was out there. “Uh-uh. You can’t hide anywhere. It

sounds as if all’s in order out here. Carry on, Chief.”

“You bet.”

Cade walked back along the short path past shrubbery and flowers losing their colors in the fading light.

The white-haired figure of Henry, the house steward, wearing a maroon jacket and tie, was peering from

the doorway of the glass-shuttered patio. “Norman Schnyder and his associate are here—Anita Lloyd.

Julia and Neville are talking to them now. Also, the catering people have started setting up.” That was in

case Cade wanted to check anything personally before it got too late to change. Henry had been with Cade

long enough to know his ways.

They crossed the patio and passed through a sun lounge with cane furniture and potted plants to the

central area of the house, where staff from the catering company handling the buffet were arranging

tablecloths and unpacking dishes. While Henry bustled off to attend to something else, Cade ran an eye

over the linen, satisfying himself that it was properly pleated and pressed, examined the china and

silverware for quality, and looked inside the ice chest containing the marinated crab claws and Oysters

Rockefeller to verify that the serving shells were real and not ceramic. Finding nothing amiss, he

contented himself with straightening the slightly crooked bow tie of one of the servers, winked at him with

a mild “Tch, tch,” and went through to the sitting area of paneling and leather upholstery surrounding the

bar. Neville Baxter, a businessman from New Zealand, who had arrived early, stopping by at the party to

say his farewells before going back in the next few days, was sprawled in one of the easy chairs, a foot

crossed over the other knee. He was florid-faced, beefy, and jovial, tonight sporting a lightweight cream

jacket and scarlet crimson shirt, open-necked with a riotous silk cravat at the neck. Norman Schnyder and

Anita sat nursing drinks on the couch opposite him. Julia must have gone off somewhere to attend to some

detail—ever the conscientious hostess.

“Here’s the man!” Baxter said, waving across as Cade came in.

Cade helped himself to a Jamesons Irish from the bar and joined them. “Hi, Anita . . . Norman. So how

are things? I don’t detect any signs of incipient poverty.”

“Norman showed up in that new Lamborghini I’m told he’s been talking about for a hundred years,”

Baxter told Cade. “It makes me feel really glad that I don’t pay any of that firm’s bills.”

“Got to be able to catch the ambulances,” Schnyder said, sipping his drink. He looked suave and

opulent, with hair showing silver at the sides of his tanned face, a dark suit with narrow pinstripe, and

expensively glittering tie clip and links. Anita Lloyd, in her early thirties, with auburn hair styled into chic,

forward-sweeping points, wearing a sleeveless navy dress with elbow-length satin gloves, had just banked

her first million the last time Cade talked to her. They were senior partner and associate respectively of an

LA law firm that had been seeing some good years. Henry always got his terms precisely right.

Anita eyed Cade’s five-eleven frame in white dinner jacket with black tie. He kept athletically trim at

thirty-six, and had wavy brown hair combed back at the sides above an angular face with narrow nose,

easy-smiling mouth, and eyes that never quite lost a puckish glint. “You seem to be bearing the burdens of

life pretty well yourself, Roland,” she remarked.

“Which just goes to show the wisdom of pure thoughts, clean living, and faith in the Lord.”

“But be sure to keep a good lawyer in your back pocket all the same,” Schnyder said.

“You mean like something to break the glass, in case of an emergency?” Cade quipped, making a

toasting gesture.

“Don’t joke. You never know. We had a bar in town sued the other week for serving a guy who had a

liver condition and knew he couldn’t take it. Would you believe that? I mean, what are they supposed to

do—check everybody’s medical records now?”

Julia appeared in the archway to the front part of the house, calling something back to Henry about a

rose tree by the front door. She saw Cade, picked up a glass of champagne that she had left on a side table,

and came over, perching herself on a couch-arm next to where he was standing and resting her free hand

lightly on his shoulder. Julia was Cade’s business partner and significant other in life, having moved in to

share the house a little over a year before. She was tall, lithe, and red-haired, with a feline elegance of

movement that exuded sexuality. Tonight she had enhanced the effect with an ankle-length dress of body-

clinging moiré that altered in the light between bottle-green and sage-yellow, set off by an emerald

bracelet and earrings. Her former husband ran a couple of night clubs that the right people in southern

California frequented, which meant that she knew a lot of names that were worth knowing, making her a

natural for Cade to get attached to. Knowing the right people was what Cade’s business was all about.

She tasted her drink and ran a questioning eye over the company. “So, what problems of the world are

we putting right tonight?”

“Have you seen Norman’s new wheels yet?” Anita asked.

“Yes. And I feel sick. Why do you think I’m wearing green?” Julia nudged Cade pointedly. “I want

one.”

“Sounds like I’d better check with Simon and see what our money’s in,” Cade replied.

“Well, I hope you don’t have too much of it in computers or electronics—or anything high-tech, by the

sound of it,” Baxter said. “Norman was saying just before you came in that the bottom’s falling out across

the board. The Hyadeans are going to be flooding the market here with better stuff at prices you can’t even

think about.”

Schnyder was already nodding. “Their production is all run by AIs—totally automatic. Matching what

we use here costs them practically nothing. It’s like beads. A lot of industries are in trouble.”

Cade tried not to let things like that affect him. It was the way life was. Things changed; you couldn’t

stop them. If you were smart you adapted and let yourself go with the flow. It wasn’t his place to protect

those who chose to stay in places where they were going to lose out. “There’s a lot of opposition out

there,” he said. “That has to have some moderating effect, surely. The government isn’t going to just let it

happen.”

Schnyder shook his head. “Forget it, Roland. The bills will go through. Too much of Congress is in for

a piece of the action. We’re talking big bucks here. They’re not going to lose out.”

Cade and Julia looked at each other, and both made a face. “So what should we be buying into?” Julia

asked, looking back.

“You really wanna know?” Schnyder invited.

“Sure. That’s why I asked.”

“Navajo blankets and sand paintings. Porcelains and sculptures. Hand-built cabinets and carvings—like

from that little firm in Santa Monica that they did the show on last week. Did you see it?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Native talents,” Anita said. “The Hyadeans don’t have anything to compare.”

“Is it really the way some people say?” Julia sounded incredulous.

“We’ve got someone coming here tonight who’s been saying the same thing,” Cade told the group.

“Damien Philps—an export dealer in that kind of thing to Chryse and the other Hyadean worlds for a few

years now. Says it’s going to grow like crazy.”

“Then you should listen to him,” Schnyder urged. “It’s getting to be a rage with them. You wouldn’t

believe the prices I’ve heard for some of the things that went there.”

“Want to buy into some totem poles?” Cade asked Julia. He looked away as Henry appeared once more

from the depths of the house. “Yes, Henry?”

“Luke just called. He’s at LAX now, with Dee. The aircraft has been cleared for landing. With traffic as

it is, he says they’ll be here in about an hour.”

“Tell the caterers to start setting out the food in thirty minutes,” Cade instructed. “But let’s have a few

appetizers out here in the meantime.”

James P. Hogan - The Legend That Was Earth

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