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Colonization: Aftershocks (Anglais) Poche – 26 février 2002


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As the jet aircraft descended toward the airport outside the still slightly radioactive ruins of Nuremberg, Pshing asked Atvar, “Exalted Fleetlord, is this visit really necessary?”

“I believe it,” the commander of the Race’s conquest fleet told his adjutant. “My briefings state that a Tosevite wise in the political affairs of his kind recommended that a conqueror visit the region he conquered as soon as he could, to make those he had defeated aware of their new masters.”

“Technically, the Greater German Reich remains independent,” Pshing pointed out.

“So it does—technically. But that will remain a technicality, I assure you.” Atvar used an emphatic cough to show how strongly he felt about that. “The Deutsche did us far too much harm in this exchange of explosive-metal weapons to let their madness ever break free again.”

“A pity we had to concede them even so limited an independence,” Pshing said.

“And that is also a truth,” Atvar agreed with a sigh. He swiveled one eye turret toward the window to get another look at the glassy crater that filled the center of the former capital of the Greater German Reich. Beyond it lay a slagged wilderness of what remained of homes and factories and public buildings. Conventional bombs had devastated the airport, too, but it was back in service.

Pshing said, “If only we had some means of detecting their missile-carrying boats that can stay submerged indefinitely. Without those, we could have forced unconditional surrender out of them.”

“Truth,” Atvar repeated. “With them, though, they could have inflicted a good deal more damage to our colonies here on Tosev 3. They will be surrendering the submarines they have left. We shall not allow them to build more. We shall not allow them to have anything to do with atomic power or explosive-metal weapons henceforward.”

“That is excellent. That is as it should be,” Pshing said. “If only we could arrange to confiscate the submersible boats of the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics as well, we would truly be on our way toward a definitive conquest of this miserable planet.”

“I merely thank the spirits of Emperors past”—Atvar cast both his eye turrets down to the floor of the aircraft that carried him—“that neither of the other powerful not-empires chose to join the Deutsche against us. Together, they could have hurt us much worse than the Reich alone did.”

“And now we also have the Nipponese to worry about,” Pshing added. “Who knows what they will do, now that they have learned the art of constructing explosive-metal weapons? They already have submarines, and they already have missiles.”

“We never did pay enough attention to islands and their inhabitants,” Atvar said fretfully. “Small chunks of land surrounded by sea were never important back on Home, so we have always assumed the same would hold true here. Unfortunately, it does not seem to be so.”

Before Pshing could answer, the aircraft’s landing gear touched down on the runway outside Nuremberg. The Race’s engineering, slowly refined through a hundred thousand years of planetary unity, was very fine, but not fine enough to keep Atvar from feeling some bumps as the aircraft slowed to a stop.

“My apologies, Exalted Fleetlord.” The pilot’s voice came back to him on the intercom. “I was given to understand repairs to the landing surface were better than is in fact the case.”

Peering out the window, Atvar saw Deutsch males in the cloth wrappings that singled out their military drawn up in neat ranks to greet and honor him. They carried rifles. His security males had flabbled about that, but the Reich remained nominally independent. If some fanatic sought to assassinate him, his second-in-command in Cairo would do . . . well enough. “What was the name of the sly Big Ugly who suggested this course?” he asked Pshing.

“Machiavelli.” His adjutant pronounced the alien name with care, one syllable at a time. “He lived and wrote about nine hundred years ago. Nine hundred of our years, I should say—half as many of Tosev 3’s.”

“So he came after our probe, then?” Atvar said, and Pshing made the affirmative gesture. The Race had studied Tosev 3 sixteen hundred years before: again, half that many in Tosevite terms. The fleetlord went on, “Remember the sword-swinging savage mounted on an animal the probe showed us? He was the height of Tosevite military technology in those days.”

“A pity he did not remain the height of Tosevite military technology, as we were so confident he would,” Pshing said. “When we understand how the Big Uglies are able to change so rapidly, we will be able to prevent them from doing so in the future. That will help bind them to the Empire.”

“So it will . . . if we can do it,” Atvar replied. “If not, we will wreck them one not-empire at a time. Or, if necessary, we will destroy this whole world, even our colonies on it. That will cauterize it once for all.”

One other possibility remained, a possibility that had never entered his mind when the conquest fleet first reached Tosev 3: the Big Uglies might conquer the Race. If they did, they would next mount an attack on Home. Atvar was as sure of it as of the fact that he’d hatched from an egg. Wrecking the world would prevent it, as a surgeon sometimes had to prevent death by cutting out a tumor.

With the Reich prostrate, the Big Uglies would have a much harder time of it. Atvar knew that. But the worry never went away. The locals were quicker, more adaptable, than the Race. He knew that, too; close to fifty of his years of experience on Tosev 3 had burned the lesson into him again and again.

Clunks and bangings from up ahead came to his hearing diaphragm: the aircraft’s door opening. He did not go forward at once; his security males would disembark ahead of him to form what was termed a ceremonial guard and amounted to a defensive perimeter. It would not hold against concerted attack; it might keep a single crazed Big Ugly from murdering him. Atvar hoped it would.

One of those security males came back to his seat and bent into the posture of respect. “All is in readiness, Exalted Fleetlord,” he reported. “And the radioactivity level is acceptably low.”

“I thank you, Diffal,” Atvar said. The male had headed Security since midway through the fighting. He wasn’t so good as his predecessor, Drefsab, but Drefsab had fallen victim to Big Uglies with even more nasty talents—or perhaps just more luck—than he’d had. Atvar turned an eye turret toward Pshing. “Come with me.”

“It shall be done, Exalted Fleetlord,” his adjutant said.

Atvar let out a hiss of disgust at the weather outside, which was chilly and damp. Cairo, whence he’d come, had a reasonably decent climate. Nuremberg didn’t come close. And this was spring, heading toward summer. Winter would have been much worse. Atvar shivered at the very idea.

As he emerged from his aircraft, a Deutsch military band began braying away. The Big Uglies meant it as an honor, not an insult, and so he endured the unmusical—at least to his hearing diaphragms—racket. The security officials parted to let a Big Ugly through: not the Führer of the Deutsche, but a protocol aide. “If you advance to the end of the carpet, Exalted Fleetlord, the Führer will meet you there,” he said, using the language of the Race about as well as a Tosevite could.

Making the gesture of agreement, Atvar advanced to the edge of the strip of red cloth and stopped. His security males kept him covered and kept themselves between him and the ranks of the Deutsche. The Tosevite soldiers looked fierce and barbaric, and had proved themselves formidable in battle. They are beaten now, Atvar reminded himself. They didn’t seem beaten, though. By their bearing, they were ready to go right back to war.

Their ranks parted slightly. Out from among them came a relatively short, rather stout Big Ugly in wrappings related to those of the soldiers but fancier. He wore a cap on his head. The hair Atvar could see below it was white, which meant he was not young. When he took off the cap for a moment, he showed that most of his scalp was bare, another sign of an aging male Tosevite.

As the Deutsche had parted, so, rather more reluctantly, did Atvar’s security males. The Big Ugly walked up to Atvar and shot out his arm in salute. Being still formally independent, he did not have to assume the posture of respect. “I greet you, Exalted Fleetlord,” he said. He was less fluent in Atvar’s language than his protocol officer, but he made himself understood. “I am Walter Dornberger, Führer and Chancellor of the Greater German Reich.”

“And I greet you, Führer.” Atvar knew he made a hash of the Deutsch word, but it didn’t matter. “Your males fought bravely. Now the fighting is over. You shall have to learn that fighting bravely and fighting wisely are not the same.”

“Had I led the Reich when this war began, it would not have begun,” Dornberger replied. “But my superiors thought differently. Now they are dead, and I have to pick up the pieces they left behind.”

That was Tosevite idiom; the Race would have spoken of putting an eggshell back together. But Atvar understood. “You shall have fewer pieces with which to work henceforward. We intend to make certain of that. You did too much harm to us to be trusted any longer.”

“I understand,” Dornberger said. “The terms you...

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“Turtledove has proved he can divert his readers to astonishing places. He’s developed a cult following over the years; and if you’ve already been there, done that with real-history novelists Patrick O’Brian, Dorothy Dunnett, or George MacDonald Fraser, for your Next Big Enthusiasm you might want to try Turtledove. I know I’d follow his imagination almost anywhere.”
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As the jet aircraft descended toward the airport outside the still slightly radioactive ruins of Nuremberg, Pshing asked Atvar, "Exalted Fleetlord, is this visit really necessary?" Lire la première page
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Amazon.com: HASH(0x93bfaa98) étoiles sur 5 83 commentaires
20 internautes sur 20 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x93a4769c) étoiles sur 5 A little too open-ended of an ending... 6 février 2001
Par Timothy Lehnerer - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
After following the life & times of a very changed world for seven books, I was hoping for a sense of closure that I didn't get from AFTERSHOCKS. That's the only thing I found wrong with the book, though--Turtledove has done his usual masterful job of extrapolating what could have happened from what did, human nature, and the elements of the world that he changed.
Also, Turtledove drops waaaaay too many hints over the first half of the book about which nation attacked the colonization fleet with nuclear weapons in DOWN TO EARTH, and mentions how dangerous the knowledge is each time it's mentioned. I got it. I'm sure the other readers got it too.
The rest of the book is typically fine Turtledove alternate history. It's interesting to see things like Caller ID or the decades-premature invention of the Furby in a different world, and the usual care has been lavished on all of the different political factions--the USA, the Greater German Reich, the USSR, China, Canada, South Africa and the conflicts between the invasion and colonization fleets. Here's hoping that if there is another sequel series it ends slightly more definitively.
Also, it would have been nice to see alien-obsessed British music producer Joe Meek in the series--the Colonization books take place right around the high point of his career and it's not like other real people never appear in the books.
13 internautes sur 14 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x93a478e8) étoiles sur 5 Colonization - Lightest Aftershocks Imaginable 26 mars 2002
Par Catherine Usher - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Poche
How is it that a book can take 600 pages or thereabouts to take you on a ride that goes nowhere? I scored this book as 2 stars rather than one because I believe it takes considerable stringing-along skill to maintain the deception of progress for such a duration, hence one point for the book and one, with a tip of my hat for such, er, technique.
Not only that but the story finishes, if such a word can be used, with more loose ends than a mop. As I was nearing the end of the novel, with maybe 50 pages to go, I was thinking "wow, it's going to be exciting to see how this gets wrapped up - any page now, something big is going to happen!". Then there were 30 pages left, then 20, then... well, I got this sinking feeling. Which proved to be well founded.
Will there be yet another trilogy? Frankly I no longer care.
7 internautes sur 7 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x93a47b28) étoiles sur 5 Where are the historical characters? 7 mars 2001
Par thomhaneline@webtv.net - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
To me, the main problem with not only this series but also his "Great War" series, is that we hardly ever see a real historical character - but for advertising purposes, they won't hesitate to try to sucker us in by putting them on the book jacket! Where IS JFK ? Are we supposed to believe that old Joe Kennedy wasn't still trying to get one of his boys elected President? And, especially if because of the Lizards' invasion in '42, young Joe might not have died in '44 ... you see, to me THAT"S REAL "Alternate History" - not just "what if we got invaded during WWII" Where is Nixon? McCarthy? LBJ? Also - I'm REAL tired of this "Stockholm Syndrome" stuff with guys like Sam Yeager being so friendly with the Lizards - it was not his place or duty as an officer in the U.S.Army to discover or divulge the information regarding the attack on the Colonization fleet! He should have been shot as a traitor - hello, these creatures are INVADING our world, Harry - why would we have any interest in getting along with them? I do admit that usig the Lizards as a "savior" of sorts for the Jews and as a buffer with the Nazis works well - it makes sense. But so many of the characters are bland and uninteresting - for many pages on end! It's all like a very dull soap opera - no real punch or lick to it. I agree with the reviewer who suggested that he turn the series over to other writers - maybe they can get it right!
8 internautes sur 9 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x93a47e88) étoiles sur 5 Same old same old. 20 mars 2001
Par Sam Howard - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
I wish I could say that my opinion of "Aftershocks" is substantially improved over my opinion of "Down To Earth" but it isn't. Furthermore, I see that many of the reviewers of the current book have come around to my point of view. I said much the same things about "Down to Earth" as many of the reviewers are saying now about "Aftershocks". Namely that it (they) are repetitive and tedious, have very little in the way of plot advancement and generally reflect either a distracted or uninterested author. This is really a shame since the idea for the series is so compelling and it got off to such a good start in the "Worldwar" series. However, if Turtledove has really abandoned this universe I will not spend too much time lamenting the loss given the hash he has made of it over the last two books. At least I had sense enough to check a copy out of the library this time instead of wasting my money buying a copy of it.
5 internautes sur 5 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
HASH(0x93a4a0c0) étoiles sur 5 Colonization: Tedium 12 mars 2001
Par Un client - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié
"Aftershocks" was supposed to be the final book of a series, and although it's unrealistic to expect each and every individual story in the series to come to an end (absent mass death), the reader does have a right to some type of closure. Instead, "Aftershocks" simply sets up another trilogy, perhaps set in the '70s or '90s.
I won't be there.
Harry Turtledove is no hack, but the viewpoint characters in the WorldWar/Colonization series all talk like they have IQs of about 80, or stepped out of some '40s movie script. Although I was gratified to several of the stories converge, the book was driven almost entirely by dialogue instead of action. I was also waiting (and still waiting) to see when the traitorous character would get strung up; that was a major disappointment, too. The passage of time was never clear, and by concentrating every story into a five-page snippet, the book is way too repetitive. I could tell about half-way through it wasn't really going to conclude, and little gems like the invention of caller ID, Furbies (why Furbies?) and the presidential commission were few and far between.
Harry Turtledove currently is writing at least three major "series" books, each with an annual installment, and that's just too much. Quantity does not equal quality.
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