to make sure the Tosevites can never threaten us, or else—” He stopped; unlike Straha, he had a sense of when he was going too far for Atvar to tolerate.
“No,” the fleetlord said, “I refuse to concede that the commands of the Emperor cannot be carried out in full. We shall defend ourselves in the northern portion of the planet until its dreadful winter weather improves, then resume the offensive against the Big Uglies. Tosev 3
shall
be ours.”
Kirel crouched into the Race’s pose of obedience. “It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord.”
Again, the response was perfectly subordinate. Kirel did not ask
how
it should be done. The Race had brought only so much matériel from Home. It was of far higher quality than anything the Tosevites used, but there was only a limited quantity of it. Try as they would, the Race’s pilots and missile batteries and artillery had not managed to knock out the Big Uglies’ manufacturing capacity. The armaments they produced, though better than those they’d had when the Race first landed on Tosev 3, remained inferior . . . but they kept on making them.
Some munitions could be produced in factories captured from the Tosevites, and the Race’s starships had their own manufacturing capacity that would have been signflicant . . . in a smaller war. When added to what the logistics vessels had brought from Home, that still left the hope of adequacy for the coming campaign . . . and the Big Uglies were also in distress, no doubt about that. Victory might yet come.
Or, of course . . . but Atvar did not care to think about that.
Even under a flag of truce, Mordechai Anielewicz felt nervous about approaching the German encampment. After starving in the Warsaw ghetto, after leading the Jewish fighters of Warsaw who’d risen against the Nazis and helped the Lizards drive them out of the city, he was under no illusions about what Hitler’s forces wanted for his people: they wanted them to vanish from the face of the earth.
But the Lizards wanted to enslave everybody, Jews and
goyim
alike. The Jews hadn’t fully realized that when they rose against the Nazis. Had they, it wouldn’t have mattered much. Measured against extermination, enslavement looked good.
The Germans were still fighting the Lizards, and fighting hard. No one denied their military prowess, or their technical skill. From afar, Anielewicz had seen the nuclear bomb they’d touched off east of Breslau. Had he seen it close up, he wouldn’t be coming here to dicker with the Nazis.
“Halt!” The voice might have come out of thin air. Mordechai halted. After a moment, a German wearing a white camouflage smock and a whitewashed helmet appeared as if by magic from behind a tree. Just looking at him made Anielewicz, who had Red Army
valenki
on his feet and was dressed in Polish Army trousers, a
Wehrmacht
tunic, a Red Army fur hat, and a sheepskin jacket of civilian origin, feel like a refugee from a rummage sale. He needed a shave, too, which added to his air of seediness. The German’s lip curled. “You are the Jew we were told to expect?”
“No, I’m St. Nicholas, here late for Christmas.” Anielewicz, who had been an engineering student before the war, had learned fluent standard German. He spoke Yiddish now, to annoy the sentry.
The fellow just grunted. Maybe he didn’t think the joke was funny. Maybe he hadn’t got it. He gestured with his Mauser. “You will come with me. I will take you to the colonel.”
That was what Anielewicz was there for, but he didn’t like the way the sentry said it even so. The German spoke as if the universe permitted no other possible outcome. Maybe it didn’t. Mordechai followed him through the cold and silent woods.
“Your colonel must be a good officer,” he said—softly, because the brooding presence of the woods weighed on him. “This regiment has come a long way east since the bomb went off near Breslau.” That was part of the reason he
“No,” the fleetlord said, “I refuse to concede that the commands of the Emperor cannot be carried out in full. We shall defend ourselves in the northern portion of the planet until its dreadful winter weather improves, then resume the offensive against the Big Uglies. Tosev 3
shall
be ours.”
Kirel crouched into the Race’s pose of obedience. “It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord.”
Again, the response was perfectly subordinate. Kirel did not ask
how
it should be done. The Race had brought only so much matériel from Home. It was of far higher quality than anything the Tosevites used, but there was only a limited quantity of it. Try as they would, the Race’s pilots and missile batteries and artillery had not managed to knock out the Big Uglies’ manufacturing capacity. The armaments they produced, though better than those they’d had when the Race first landed on Tosev 3, remained inferior . . . but they kept on making them.
Some munitions could be produced in factories captured from the Tosevites, and the Race’s starships had their own manufacturing capacity that would have been signflicant . . . in a smaller war. When added to what the logistics vessels had brought from Home, that still left the hope of adequacy for the coming campaign . . . and the Big Uglies were also in distress, no doubt about that. Victory might yet come.
Or, of course . . . but Atvar did not care to think about that.
Even under a flag of truce, Mordechai Anielewicz felt nervous about approaching the German encampment. After starving in the Warsaw ghetto, after leading the Jewish fighters of Warsaw who’d risen against the Nazis and helped the Lizards drive them out of the city, he was under no illusions about what Hitler’s forces wanted for his people: they wanted them to vanish from the face of the earth.
But the Lizards wanted to enslave everybody, Jews and
goyim
alike. The Jews hadn’t fully realized that when they rose against the Nazis. Had they, it wouldn’t have mattered much. Measured against extermination, enslavement looked good.
The Germans were still fighting the Lizards, and fighting hard. No one denied their military prowess, or their technical skill. From afar, Anielewicz had seen the nuclear bomb they’d touched off east of Breslau. Had he seen it close up, he wouldn’t be coming here to dicker with the Nazis.
“Halt!” The voice might have come out of thin air. Mordechai halted. After a moment, a German wearing a white camouflage smock and a whitewashed helmet appeared as if by magic from behind a tree. Just looking at him made Anielewicz, who had Red Army
valenki
on his feet and was dressed in Polish Army trousers, a
Wehrmacht
tunic, a Red Army fur hat, and a sheepskin jacket of civilian origin, feel like a refugee from a rummage sale. He needed a shave, too, which added to his air of seediness. The German’s lip curled. “You are the Jew we were told to expect?”
“No, I’m St. Nicholas, here late for Christmas.” Anielewicz, who had been an engineering student before the war, had learned fluent standard German. He spoke Yiddish now, to annoy the sentry.
The fellow just grunted. Maybe he didn’t think the joke was funny. Maybe he hadn’t got it. He gestured with his Mauser. “You will come with me. I will take you to the colonel.”
That was what Anielewicz was there for, but he didn’t like the way the sentry said it even so. The German spoke as if the universe permitted no other possible outcome. Maybe it didn’t. Mordechai followed him through the cold and silent woods.
“Your colonel must be a good officer,” he said—softly, because the brooding presence of the woods weighed on him. “This regiment has come a long way east since the bomb went off near Breslau.” That was part of the reason he
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