Epilogue

Safely back on board the ship, the Defence Senior Ensign had recounted the evening’s events to the debriefing with the Captain’s remaining senior staff.

“So, despite their superior technology, it is your opinion that these flying primitives can be defeated by primitive projectile weaponry,” said Captain Varshad, seeking confirmation.

“Yes, Captain,” replied the Defence Senior Ensign.

“In that case, since we’ve lost nearly a quarter of our complement, I think we should return home to make a report, including a recommendation that any future missions here should be armed with projectile weaponry.”

The twirling of the senior staff’s tentacles showed a consensus.

“Captain,” said the Offence Commander, “I don’t think it would be wise to leave here without some measure of retribution for the loss of Senior Commander Lushram and so many crew members. We should launch a strike from orbit to eradicate the scene of our humiliation.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” said the Captain. This time his claret tentacles were doing the twirling to show assent.

“Captain, I beg to disagree,” countered the Defence Commander. “While I don’t understand the technology of the flying primitives, it’s my opinion that with projectile weaponry we would prevail. If we strike from orbit and don’t wipe them all out, the surviving primitives will have an indication of the technological level they need to attain to match us. The primitives progressed beyond our expectations since our last mission here, and in the time it takes us to reach home and send another mission here, it’s not impossible that they might achieve technological parity. I think it’s better to let them live in ignorance.”

“You make a strong argument, Commander,” said the Captain, his tentacles swaying thoughtfully at being swayed first one way then the other. “I suppose, given the limited nature of our conflict so far, with neither side using nuclear weapons, if we don’t launch a strike from orbit it would leave more room for possible negotiations by a future mission. After all, with a population of seven and three quarter billion, surely they could supply us with a few thousand a year.”

The senior crew members’ tentacles twirled more tentatively this time, because although they mostly agreed, the idea of negotiating with primitives was repugnant.

“Navigation Commander, prepare to set a course for home, maximum speed,” ordered the Captain.

“Acknowledged.”

The senior crew members’ tentacles twirled animatedly. That was something they wholeheartedly agreed with.