Poul Anderson - High Treason

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HIGH TREASON

Paul Anderson

HIGH TREASON

In three hours by the clock they will be here to kill me. The door will crack open. Two

noncoms will step through and flank it, in parade uniforms with stunners at the ready. I

don't know whether their faces will wear loathing and righteousness, or that sick pity I

have observed on some aboard this ship, but it is certain that they will be pathetically

young, because all the enlisted ratings are. Then Erik Halvorsen will stride in between

them and come to attention. So will I. 'Edward Breckinridge,' he will say like a

machine, and proceed with the formula. Not so long ago he called me Ed, and we were

messmates, and on our last leave we went on a drinking bout which must by now have

become a part of the local mythology. (This was in Port Desire, but next day we flitted

down to the sea, which is golden coloured on that planet, and tumbled in the surf and

lay on the sand letting sunlight and thunder possess us.) I don't know what will be in his

eyes either. Curious, that one's closest male friend should be so unpredictable. But since

he was always a good officer, he can be counted on to play his role out.

So can I. There is no gain in breaking the ritual, and ample reason for not doing so.

Perhaps I should not even have dismissed the chaplain. With so much religiosity about,

as our universe goes down in wreck, I have painted myself more strongly Lucifer by

not spending these last hours in prayer. Will my children hear at school. He wasn't just

a traitor, he was a dirty atheist -? Never mind. I am not entitled to a great deal, but let

me claim the dignity of remaining myself.

There will also be a kind of dignity in what follows: barbaric, macabre, and necessary. I

will march down the corridor between the stiff bodies and stiffer faces of men I

commanded; drums will drown the mutter of engines and priest. The inner airlock door

will already stand wide. I will enter the chamber. The door will close. Then, for a

moment, I can be alone. I shall try to hold to me the memory of Alice and the children,

but perhaps my sweat will stink too harshly.

They don't pump the air out of the chamber in cases like this. That would be cruel. They

simply pull the emergency switch. (No, not 'they'. One man's hand must do it. But

whose? I don't want to know.) An engine will strain against the atmospheric pressure,

one kilogram per square centimetre that we have borne with us, along with salt blood

and funny little patches of hair and funny little instincts, all the way from Earth. The

outer door will swing. Suddenly my coffin brims with darkness and stars. Earth's air

rejects me. I fly out. The ship resumes hyper-drive.

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HIGH TREASON

For me, then, the universe will no longer ever have been.

But I ramble. It was well meant of them to give me this psychograph. The written word

lies, the distorted molecules of a thought-recording tape do not. My apologia can be

analysed for sincerity as well as logic. The worlds will be assured that I was at least an

honest fool, which could make things easier for Alice, Jeanne, small Bobby who - her

last letter said - has begun to look like his father. On the other hand, being no expert in

the use of the machine, I will commit more of myself to the record than I like.

Well, keep trying, Ed, old chap. You can always wipe the tape. Though why you should

be concerned about your privacy, when you are going to be dead.

Drusilla.

NO.

Go away. Take back your summer-scented hair, the feel of breasts and belly, the bird

that sang in the garden beyond your window, take them back, Alice is my girl, and I'd

simply been away from her too long, and no, that isn't true either, I damn well had fun

with you, Dru, my puss, and I don't regret a microsecond of our nights but it would hurt

Alice to know, or would she understand, Christ-Osiris-Baldr-Xipe, I can't even be sure

about that.

Get your mind back to higher things. Like battle. Quite okay to kill, you know, it's love

which is dangerous and must be kept on tight leash, no, now I'm knee-jerking like one

of those Brotherhood types. The soldier is akin to the civil monitor, both trained in

violence because violence is sometimes necessary for the purposes of society. My

problem was, what do you do when those purposes become impossible of attainment?

You fight. The Morwain will not forget either, certain hours amidst the blaze of

Cantrell's Cluster. Part of my defence, remember, Erik Halvorsen? - my squadron

inflicted heavy damage on the enemy - but the court martial couldn't follow such logic.

Why did I attack a superior force after betraying a planet… a species? My claim is on

record, that in my considered judgement the mission on which we had been ordered

would have had catastrophic results, but that something might have been accomplished

by striking elsewhere. Be it said, though, here to the ultimate honesty of this machine, I

hoped to be captured. I have no more death wish than you, Erik.

And someone will have to represent men, when the Morwain come. Why not myself?

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Poul Anderson - High Treason

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