Keith Laumer - Retiefs Peace

Retief's Peace

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Retief's Peace

William H. Keith

created By Keith Laumer

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.

used with permission.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-0900-4

ISBN-10: 1-4165-0900-3

Cover art by Kurt Miller

First printing, September 2005

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Keith, William H.

Retief's peace / William H. Keith, Jr.

p. cm.

"Created by Keith Laumer."

"A Baen Books original"--T.p. verso.

ISBN 1-4165-0900-3 (hc)

1. Retief (Fictitious character)--Fiction. I. Laumer, Keith, 1925- II. Title.

PS3561.E37747R48 2005

813'.54--dc22

2005016176

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production & design by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH (www.windhaven.com)

Printed in the United States of America

Baen Books by Keith Laumer

edited by Eric Flint:

Retief!

Odyssey

Keith Laumer: The Lighter Side

A Plague of Demons & Other Stories

Created by Keith Laumer

The Bolo series:

The Compleat Boloby Keith Laumer

The Honor of the Regiment

The Unconquerable

The Triumphantby David Weber & Linda Evans

Last Stand

Old Guard

Cold Steel

Bolo Brigadeby William H. Keith, Jr.

Bolo Rising byWilliam H. Keith, Jr.

Bolo Strike byWilliam H. Keith, Jr.

The Road to Damascusby John Ringo & Linda Evans

Bolos!by David Weber

Old Soldiersby David Weber

Retief's Peaceby William H. Keith, Jr.

Chapter One

1

Second suns-set was an hour past, but the sky, ablaze with the myriad gleaming suns of the Shamballa

Cluster, shone with brilliance enough to read even the five-point italic type of a footnote to a standard

CDT Stern Note of Protest rendered in its most tightly spaced third-level obfuscese. Second Assistant

Deputy Undersecretary Jame Retief of theCorps Diplomatique Terrestrienne was at that moment less

interested in the radiance of B'rukley's night sky, however, than he was with the angry tenor of the

gathering crowd.

The mob had been building itself to a frenzy all afternoon, beginning with a demonstration at the

university campus at firstnoon, then spilling out in all directions until seemingly every street and corner of

the sprawling Terry enclave of High Gnashberry was packed either with marching, chanting protesters or

the silent throngs of B'ruklian natives enjoying the spectacle. The focus of the march, apparently, was the

Plaza of Articulate Naiveté, directly in front of the glass, faux marble, and antique plasteel elegance of the

Terran Embassy. The plaza already was packed, standing room only, and more and more protesters

were streaming in from every direction.

Retief had a good view, standing, as he did, head and shoulders—and a bit more—above the heads of

the thronging local populace. He struck a dopestick alight and leaned against the ivy-cluttered façade of a

university bookstore, typical of such establishments, filled with books, tapes, and tri-D disks on

everything from theoretical economic calculus and artistic meditation to pornographic histories of galactic

exploration. The store was empty at the moment. Everyone in the city, it seemed, had turned out on this

star-radiant evening to watch the marching Terries.

"Whatcher doin' there, Terry?" a leather-faced local grated in harshly gargled Standard at Retief's elbow.

"Why'n't youse marchin' fer a piece of yer valiant comrades an' their war?"

"I thought I'd sit this one out," he replied easily in B'rukkk, the local patois. "All that marching for either

pieceor peace can be hard on the feet."

"Unh," the local agreed in the same language, nodding his massive, knobbed and wrinkled head. The

long-jawed, crocodilian head showed uneven rows of carnivore teeth. "Good point. Though, I dunno.

You Terries is only got two feet to get sore. Now, when a B'ruklian gets sore feet, he's got something to

gripe about! Like the Holy Mystic Fortune Cookies say, if you muffle your noofnard, you'll regret it come

suns-rise."

"Wise words to live by," Retief agreed. "But then, all of our weight is distributed on two feet instead of

on eight. Four times the ground pressure, you see?"

"Yeah . . . yeah." The octocentauroid native nodded as he chewed on the idea. "Never thought of it that

way." He shifted back to Standard. "Geeze, how d'youse Terries manage, anyway?"

"We're tougher than we look," Retief replied, matching the local's linguistic shift. "Some of us sit through

four-hour staff meetings on economic policy to build up our stamina. After a few of those, a twenty-mile

hike sounds like heaven."

"Yeah? What's this . . . whatchacallum . . . 'sit'?"

Retief glanced along the length of the native's body—stocky, massive, four-armed, and with a heavy,

segmented abdomen supported by eight stubby legs. "It's something we Terries do when two legs aren't

enough. We kind of fold over in the middle to redistribute the ground pressure."

The local nodded sagely. "I get it. Like the Holy Mystic Fortune Cookies say, it's a poor grullard what

can't hold his drollops."

"You just might have something there, friend," Retief said, exhaling a stream of hyacinth-scented smoke.

"I'm not certain what, exactly, but I think youdo have something."

A particularly boisterous knot of students tromped down the broad avenue opposite Retief's vantage

point, chanting with considerable fervor.

"Peace! Peace! We want peace!

"Peace! Peace! We want peace!"

"I just wonder," the local said slowly, "what it is they want a piece of."

"Ambassador Crapwell's hide, possibly," Retief said judiciously. "Or possibly they'd settle for a piece of

the hide of the military attaché. But they're definitely interested in getting their message across to the Terry

Embassy."

"I guess mebee they don't like th' way your war's goin' out on Odiousita."

"They don't like the fact that the war is going at all. And in that, I don't blame them one bit. Still, though .

. . I wonder . . ."

"Whatcha wonder, Terry?"

"I'm just having a little trouble believing thatall of these protesters are from USC."

A number of hand-lettered signs were in evidence, wielded overhead like blunt weapons. "Hands off

Odiousita V!" one read. "Have sex, not a kitten," another proclaimed. "The Krll are friends we just

haven't met yet!" declared a third.

"Hey, you read Terry words, right?" the local said, nudging Retief's side.

"Occasionally."

"That sign there, the big one . . . does it say what I think it does? Somethin' about the Krll bein' our

friends?"

"Words paraphrased directly from the Preface to the CDT Embassy Manual," Retief told him. "The 85th

Edition, Revised, Annotated, and Expurgated, to be precise."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Something like your Holy Mystic Fortune Cookies," he replied. "Only somewhat longer-winded."

"Well, each being to its own brand o' ritual suicide," the local said with a philosophical shrug of his

massive shoulders. "But I gotta wonder if those Terries ever seen a Krll in the flesh . . . uh . . . Krll in the

durasteel, I mean. They ain't exactly whatcha call friendly, if'n ya know what I means."

"Maybe that's just because we don't really know them," Retief said. "'To know all is to forgive all,'

right?"

The B'ruklian snorted, a sound not unlike a peculiarly productive nasal blast into a large pocket

handkerchief. "That ain't what the Holy Mystic Fortune Cookies say."

"Really? What do they have to say about the Krll?"

"Nothing aboutthem babies. But . . . 'Know where your gnashberries are snickered,' that's one. An' 'A

garbling groftpot natters no nookkem.' That's another. I think that's my favorite."

"I like that," Retief said, nodding. "Mind if I use it sometime?"

"Hey, be my guest, pal. The Wisdom o' the Ancients is there fer all, y'know? Ain't got my copyright on

it."

"You know," Retief said after another long moment, "I really had no idea there were so many Terry

students at the university here."

"Well, hey! The University of the Shamballa Cluster isthe place o' higher learning and graduate study in

th' whole Shamballa Cluster. They gotta have a student body of five, mebee six thou, somethin' like that."

"The enrollment records for this year indicate a student population of four thousand, eight hundred and

seven," Retief said, thoughtful.

"Like I said. Five thou, near enough."

"Very true. But that number includes one thousand, seven hundred eighty-five students of Terry descent,

most from Terry-colonized worlds here in the Cluster. The rest are Yaha, Fustian, Atlu, Gaspierran, Yill,

Prutians . . . quite a menagerie, in fact."

"And us B'ruk! Don't fergit us B'ruk!"

"How could I? USC started off as a B'ruk educational establishment . . . what, almost a thousand years

ago standard, now, isn't it?"

"Durned straight. B'ruk Middle-High Elementary and Charm School, PS-18, established in 827 AB.

And now look at her! The whatchacallum premier cornerstone of higher education fer th' whole Armpit."

"I see you've been reading the university's public relations brochures."

"I'm on th' faculty, if that's whatcher mean."

"Really?"

"Yup. Doctor Dunudiddledinldink," he said, nodding. He then added, formally, in B'ruk Common,

"That's Professor-Doctor Dinwiddle Dunudiddledinldink."

"Pleased to meet you, Doctor," he replied in the same language. "I'm Retief."

"Charmed, I'm sure." He switched back to thickly accented Standard. "Anyways, most us here city-zens

of High Gnashberry work fer the university one way or another. S'what's yer point?"

"Only that it looks to me like we have more than seventeen hundred Terries in the street today."

"How can you tell? Ya count 'em all?"

"Nope. Just an off-the-cuff impression."

"Well, mebee you should wait until you can make an on-the-cuff impression. More accurate, don'cha

know."

"Could be. You said you were on the faculty. What do you teach?"

"Irrational Numerology an' the formal mathematics of the eight-footed gavotte. I also fill in fer th' diction

an' granma department, onna 'count of they's short-footed right now."

Retief continued watching the chanting, sign-waving parade march past. There were, he noted, a number

of other races represented, though most appeared to be human. Directly in front of him, a Fustian,

massive, wrinkled, and ponderous despite the absence of the heavy shell of an oldster, held aloft a

crudely claw-hieroglyphed sign in Old High Fustian reading "Don't Be Hasty." The more fleet-of-foot

and/or -tentacled beings in the crowd around him—and that meantall of them—were surging past,

impatient with the testudoid's stately pace.

One large and turbulent knot of protesters spilled past the Fustian and as a result jostled close to the

walkway where Retief leaned against the wall. Both his height and his clothing—he was wearing his

sequined powder-blue-with-magenta trim hemi-demi-informal coveralls, mid-to-late afternoon, for use

during—made him more than a little conspicuous.

"Hey, mister!" a college-aged girl cried out. "Like, join us!"

The knot tumbled closer, scattering the B'ruks lining the street. The young woman, Retief saw, was quite

fetching in her formal school bikini briefs, beret, and cloak, all three in the USC hot pink, Day-Glo

chartreuse, and International Orange tartan colors. Her nipple rings flickered dizzyingly in red and pink

flashes of LED light. Not much taller than the locals, she looked up at him with a bright and inviting grin.

"So, whatcha, like, standin' there for? Like, the action is, y'know, like out here!"

"Like, I like it here, miss," Retief replied, shifting to her like-dialect. "But, like, I do like the invitation.

Thank you."

"Hey, like, wait a sec," one of the other students, a pimply-faced youth in a Grateful Reincarnated

T-shirt, said, crowding closer. He pointed at the small, gold CDT crest on Retief's hemi-demi-coveralls.

"It's, like, wunna th' pigs!"

"Like, I think you need to brush up on your species identification, son."

"Huh?"

"Naw, Marty," the girl said. "He's, like, y'know, too sweet t'be wunna them!"

"Marty's right," another student cried. "That's, like, a CDT patch!"

"It's notlike a CDT patch," Retief told him, shifting to Standard. "Itis one. Do you have a problem with

that?"

"You, like, makin' fun a' the way I talk?"

"Not particularly. I much prefer having stimulating conversations with people fluent in Standard."

"Yeah, pops? Stimulatethis !" Marty threw a hard right straight at Retief's face. Retief caught the young

tough's wrist in his right hand and held it, hard, the fist still twelve inches in front of his face.

"Hey! Leggo!" Marty tried to pull his hand back, but the fist remained immobile in Retief's grasp. He

brought up his free hand and tried to prize Retief's one-handed grip loose, with no success. "No fair!

Lemmee go!"

"Nice ring," Retief commented, observing the bright blue stone set in imitation plastic on Marty's pinky.

"Sigma Omicron Beta. I didn't know they had a chapter at USC."

"Whazit to you? Geeze, fella! C'mon! Thathurts ! Let go!"

"I haven't heard the magic word."

"Pleeeease!"

Retief released Marty's arm, and the kid dropped to his knees, cradling his bruised wrist.

"Where are you kids from?" Retief asked, addressing the group.

"We, like, uh . . . like . . ." one explained carefully.

"It's, uh, like this, like, uh . . ." the girl suggested.

"Yeah, an', like, we gotta be, like, goin', man," another added helpfully. The group began fading back

into the marching mob of protesters.

"I still think he's, like, cute," the girl said.

"Shaddap!" Marty told her, rising to his feet and hustling her back toward the street.

"Like, look me up, mister!" she called back over a shapely shoulder. "At, like, the Student Union? After

the demonstration?"

"I, like, said, like, shaddap, Aquaria!" Marty snapped. "That old guy's, like, trouble!"

"Get real, Marty! He's, like, not so old!" And then the crowd of demonstrators swallowed them.

"Interesting," Retief said. "Were any of them students of yours, by chance?"

"How should I know?" Dunudiddledinldink replied with a complicated shrug of all four shoulders.

"Sorry, but all youse Terries look alike to me. I mean, not meanin' to comment on racial deficiencies an'

all, but youse only got the two legs an' the two arms an' you usually keep your zoobles covered up in

them artificial integuments youse all wear, which it makes it hard t'read your emotions an' all. No offense,

see?"

"None taken, Professor. I doubt very much you'dwant to see the emotions displayed by our zoobles,

however. Some things are best left covered."

"Yeah, ya got that right. Like the Holy Mystic Fortune Cookies say, 'It's best to leave dangling

gnashberries high, cuz th' low ones'll garfle yer dillidums.' An' theywill , too."

"And I, for one, don't care to have my dillidums garfled," Retief said.

"Well, hey! Who does? Uh-oh."

"What is it, Professor?"

The local lifted his massive head, pointing with a jutting chin across the street, which was momentarily

unblocked by sign-waving marchers. The pimple-faced tough who'd confronted Retief a moment before

was in the watching crowd opposite, apparently in conversation with a hulking, heavily cloaked

Grothelwaith.

"Don't look now, but isn't that there th' guy you just sent packin'?"

"Sure is. I thought you said you couldn't tell one Terry from another?"

"Can't, usually," he said, shifting back to B'ruk Common. "But I recognize the pattern of lesions on that

one's . . .groz . What's the word in Standard? The bumpy area round your oculars."

"Face," Retief supplied. "And you're right. That's our acne-prone friend Marty."

"So what's he doing with that Grothelwaith? Them folks ain't what you call gracious social mixers."

"I don't know, Professor. I've been watching those two for several minutes, now. My impression is that

Marty is giving his friend a detailed rundown on our conversation."

"That ain't so good, Retief. Marty was mad, th' way you being-handled him, an' all, and Grothelwaiths

can be mean-honkin' customers!"

A thin, high-pitched warble cut through the crowd noise.

"Ow!" Dunudiddledinldink said, clapping two of his hands over his noof-organs. "Them snarf-vibrations

is shrill enough to garfle a dead limlom!"

"Sorry, Professor." Retief plucked his handphone from its hip holster and thumbed down the volume on

the ringer. He held it to his ear. "Retief."

"Retief!" a reedy voice sounded, the edge to the name wavering somewhere between urgency and

desperation. "Where in the Name of Undeclared Ambiguity are you?"

"Hello, Mr. Magnan," Retief told his boss. "I'm right here."

"Yes, but where ishere ? Ah! Never mind that now. The Ambassador is most upset, Retief,most upset!

He has ordered an all-hands evolution. . . ."

"Good," Retief said. "Some of the hands could use some evolving."

"Your flippancy does you no credit, Retief. I will remind you that your semiquarterly ERs are coming up,

and you are not, at the moment, well positioned in that regard, careerwise!"

"And what would a well position be, Mr. Magnan?"

"For starters, it would be here. In my office! The staff has been directed to gather in ten minutes!"

Retief cast a glance across the sea of chanting, gesticulating beings filling the Plaza of Articulate Naiveté.

Beyond rose the high wall of gray stone surrounding the Terran Embassy and the chancery. The Marine

guards, he noted, had withdrawn inside the iron bars of the front gate. Getting through the mob between

the gate and him would take more than ten minutes, he estimated, even if the crowd wasn't against him.

"I'll see what I can do, Mr. Magnan. But go ahead and start without me if you have to."

He snapped the handphone shut, cutting off Magnan's voice in mid-squawk. There was, fortunately,

another way. . . .

2

Half a block down from where Retief had been watching the parade and around the corner onto the

Avenue of Much Walking, tucked away within an unprepossessing greenstone façade, a bar and

bookstore resided beneath a tastefully garish neon sign in alien script that looked for all the world like the

word "Thingamaboob," rendered in sweepingly ornate cursive strokes. A ramp designed for stubby

B'ruklian legs led down to a street entryway with a recessed door. Inside, artificial smoke hung in dense

clouds near the pink lights on the ceiling, and the heavy silence of the latest thing in nomusic throbbed in

the air. An alligator-faced local looked up from the low bar and stopped polishing the surface in

mid-swipe.

"Hey, Mr. Retief!" the bartender called, showing a rubbery-lipped smile that hid the rows of carnivore

teeth beyond. "Long time, nogroz !"

"Hi, Joe. What's the problem? Not many customers this evening."

Joe surveyed the empty bar. He and Retief were the only macroscopic life-forms present. "Ah,

everyone's out watching the parade. Not that that's any scales off my nose, of course. Empty or full

house, I get paid, just the same." He gave Retief a broad wink. "Like the Holy Mystic Fortune Cookies

say, it's a yellow burble that can't defenestrate."

"True enough. And I'm sure you'll have plenty of business after a bit. Protesting is thirsty work."

"Maybe." He began polishing a glass with two hands, while continuing to wipe down the counter with the

other two. His name, Retief knew, was Jolopoppoppalnlnit, but for some reason the embassy staff called

him "Joe." Joe's Bar and Bookstore—the translation of the neon sign outside—wasthe local watering

hole for Terry diplomats, newsmen, and spies in High Gnashberry. The B'ruklian furnishings of the outer

bar were more for show than for serious drinking.

"Y'know, though," Joe continued, still polishing the already sparkling glass, "my best customers haven't

put in an appearance today."

"What?" Retief exclaimed in tones of mock alarm. "Not for elevenses? Or the traditional ritual of the

three-martini lunch? The early afternoon cocktail hour? Or . . . not evenhappy hour ?"

"Nope. Nary a nip."

"If I didn't know better, I'd say that they don't care for crowds."

"What crowds? This joint's been quiet as a metaphor all day!"

"I meant outside, Joe. My esteemed colleagues may feel safer behind walls and the ceremonial weapons

of a platoon of Marine Embassy guards."

"Oh, yeah." Joe shrugged two sets of narrow shoulders. "Well, their loss. Like I says, I get paid either

way."

"Yes, that is a sweet deal you have with the Embassy commissariat. I gather you're on a very nice

retainer, and all you have to do is maintain the place for thirsty diplomats and reporters."

"And spies, Mr. Retief. Don't forget the spies! This whole thing was dreamed up by your own Mr.

Smith, y'know."

"Ah, yes. John Smith, of the embassy's Covert Illegal Actions desk."

"Huh? I heard it was the department of Casually Innocent Activities."

"It all depends on your point of view, Joe. You get many spies in here?"

"Yeah, they come and they go. Lousy tippers, though."

"Well, I hope you stay in business long enough to assemble a new and more generous clientele.

Especially after you lose the subsidy."

"Yeah, you got that right, Retief. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if . . . huh?" He stopped his polishing in

mid-polish. "Whaddaya mean after I lose the subsidy? What subsidy?"

"The CIA black-operations money that keeps you in business. That crowd out there seems pretty

determined to run the Terry Embassy out of town. If the diplomats leave, you might have to start running

Keith Laumer - Retiefs Peace

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