Présentation de l'éditeur
“[A] tour de force of speculative historical fiction. Highly recommended.”—Library Journal
In the extraordinary Worldwar tetralogy, set against the backdrop of World War II, Harry Turtledove, the “Hugo-winning master of alternate SF” (Publishers Weekly), wove an explosive saga of world powers locked in conflict against an enemy from the stars. Now he expands his magnificent epic into the volatile 1960s, when the space race is in its infancy and humanity must face its greatest challenge: alien colonization of planet Earth.
Yet even in the shadow of this inexorable foe, the United States, the Soviet Union, and Nazi Germany are unable to relinquish their hostilities and unite against a massive new wave of extraterrestrials. For all the countries of the world, this is the greatest threat of all. This time, the terrible price of defeat will be the conquest of our world, and perhaps the extinction of the human race itself.
Praise for Second Contact
“An exciting, often surprising, story that will not only delight his fans but will probably send newcomers back to the Worldwar saga.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Outstanding entertainment.”—Booklist
Extrait
Atvar, the commander of the Race's conquest fleet, poked a control with a fingerclaw. A holographic image sprang into being above the projector in the fleetlord's office. In the forty years since the conquest fleet came to Tosev 3 (half that many local years), he had grown all too intimately familiar with that particular image.
So had Kirel, shiplord of the 127th Emperor Hetto, the bannership of the conquest fleet. The body paint on his scaly, green-brown hide was more ornate than every other male's save only Atvar's. His mouth fell open in amusement, revealing a great many small, sharp teeth. A slight waggle to his lower jaw gave his laughter a sardonic twist.
"Once more we behold the might Tosevite warrior, eh, Exalted Fleetlord?" he said. He ended the sentence with an interrogative cough.
"Even so, Shiplord," Atvar answered. "Even so. He does not look as if he would cause us much trouble, does he?"
"By the Emperor, no," Kirel said. Both Atvar and he swiveled their turreted eyes so they looked down at the ground for a moment: a gesture of respect for the sovereign back on distant Home.
As Atvar had done so many times before, he walked around the hologram to view it from all sides. The Tosevite male was mounted on a hairy local quadruped. He wore a tunic of rather rusty chain armor, and over it a light cloth coat. A pointed iron helmet protected his braincase. Tufts of yellowish hair grew like dry grass on his scaleless, pinkish cheeks and jaw. For armament, he had a spear, a sword, a knife, and a shield with a cross painted in red on it.
A long, hissing sigh escaped Atvar. "If only it had been as easy as we thought it would be."
"Truth, Exalted Fleetlord," Kirel said. "Who would have thought the Big Uglies"—the nickname the Race used for its Tosevite subjects and neighbors—"could have changed so much in a mere sixteen hundred years?"
"No one," Atvar said. "No one at all." He used a different cough this time, one that emphasized the words preceding it. They deserved emphasis. The Race—and the Hallessi and Rabotevs, whose planets the Empire had ruled for thousands of years—changed only very slowly, only very cautiously. For the Race, one millennium was like another. After sending a probe to Tosev 3, everyone back on Home had blithely assumed the barbarians there would not have changed much by the time the conquest fleet arrived.
Never in its hundred thousand years of unified imperial history—and never in the chaotic times before, for that matter—had the Race got a larger and more unpleasant surprise. When the conquest fleet did reach Tosev 3, it found not sword-swinging savages but a highly industrialized world with several empires and not-empires battling one another for dominance.
"Even after all these years, there are times when
