Star Destroyers

by Tony Daniel

  The atmosphere on Trikandle was an unbreathable amalgam: storms of methane mixing with unstable compounds, leaving odd pools of multilayered liquids . . . including water. Measurable pockets of oxygen enriched the atmosphere in deep valleys and craters. It was now oxygen rich for a world where free oxygen had hitherto been bound to rocks or was a trace gas high in the atmosphere.

  On Trikandle life roiled, it flittered, it rolled; it gathered itself into mats of color and motion, it launched itself against barriers of other life with potent chemistry of acid and base. It grew through ceaseless life cycles of solution and dissolution. As it writhed into toxic tentacles, grew sniffer stalks and eye puddles, it fed a future Verita was struggling to direct.

  Verita was supported by the work she’d done since graduate school, fed by secrets pilfered in the great war more than a century gone by, when Implacable’s weapons led the attack on Quadraterra’s defenses and stood guard over the looting of the Ligonier Library.

  Some of that looted knowledge had been useless; the physics of a closed and finite universe did not translate perfectly to this one. But in the end times of the old universe, there’d been clones and all manner of living abominations shaped by the unknowable minds of the Great Enemy, Sherikas. That there were detailed instructions of the building of such pseudolife was a secret Verita held close.

  Scientists at Ligonier Library had plotted their control of the new universe, using the tools that had won the old. They’d been pushed to unleash at-will terraforming, wild cellular advances—and much of their knowledge had come to Verita’s hands.

  Verita’s ambition supported Kiland’s. They were a good team politically and would carry their bloodlines to the top of the Confederation’s hierarchy. Well-placed by birth and education, they would easily live two centuries or more. Their Confederation would sweep aside the remnants of the old Terran Empire, the Liadens, and even the Yxtrang.

  In Verita’s display screens Implacable’s thrust sparkled across many bands, infernos created by in-system engines that were no longer welcome in most habited systems.

  The Confederation’s pride and joy . . . well, once there was a new source of accessible wealth under their control, a whole new planet to be used, followed by many more to be farmed at will—then, Implacable could be a regal exemplar of their might!

  Kiland’s parting message going out she knew by heart, and believed it still:

  “I live to serve your needs and solve your problems, my Verita. Our next Change Day together we shall reprise and surmount all our dreams and fantasies.”

  And now—Implacable was back, and all of their future beckoned.

  It was the sixth hundredth day since the special pair of rovers was unleashed.

  Today Verita studied the area called Quozmo. The implication of the new, bolder streaking on ground and air was clear to her, though she really wished to be sure it was not yet clear to Admin Desler. Admin was only a few days returned from her course of enforced rest. In other days her episode might have been called “nervous exhaustion.” Admin’s work had become more difficult with the several suicides among the staff overworked with aging equipment and shredded schedules. Desler, a tenured academic appointed to the post to remove her from a politically sensitive position, was unequal to the increased stress.

  It had taken time for the crew psychologist to understand the situation and by then, Admin Desler had been in a precarious state. She was taken under care, some of her work redistributed to Verita and to Desler’s assistant.

  The right corner of the screen showed a notification—ground side ops. She gestured and took the voice call.

  “Investigator, I’ve a message from Quozmo Ob2. They’ve lost relay from the Debae and Dabbie rover pair again and they’re down to four drones, three of them lightweights. Do we want the drones all back now?”

  Verita pushed back at her hair—if Kiland didn’t prefer it long enough to brush and caress she’d have cut it short.

  “Condense the last of the valley images and send them to me. Begin reacquisition interrogation on the rovers. Work on that, priority!”

  The rover teams . . . the rover teams acted like they were sentient. They weren’t, of course, Verita never quite dared bringing both parts of the legacy together. Though for this, she had considered it.

  The rovers were semiautonomous. They could go for years without input—collecting, analyzing, reporting when queried. The pair’s self-selected braided trail method was working so well she’d asked the next units be programmed to emulate it. The lead rovers were encountering pods and accumulations of . . . things. Life. New life. Life chosen and sown by her will, growing in a wilderness of chaos.

  The valley the rovers roamed was a tectonic artifact, more a long gash than a crater. The upthrust of plateau at the far end looked to be impact residue, but her studies confirmed the heights as cooling volcanic plumes, recent. Those plumes generated thermal activity in the valley, a rich source of energy and minerals. Minerals including timonium, platinum, gold.

  The valley was geologically active, with three rivers rushing into it. The hydrocarbons were interesting, but one of those rivers ran seasonally as water, as it did now, sometimes sharing the riverbeds, sometimes competing. Within the last year, spongy mats of winter vegetation had begun catching against the cliffsides, and the oxygen levels were notably higher.

  “Yes,” Verita said to ground ops, “recover the drones, as long as they haven’t been below the pressure threshold.”

  “Altitude threshold, right, not height threshold? We’ve been pushing, as you requested. There’s been wind and updrafts around the mount—we’ve been using that to keep the glidefoils active beyond normal duration.”

  Verita closed her eyes, considering. Yes, she’d approved that. There shouldn’t have been any problem there, surely . . .

  “Show me the flight paths. Show me recent weather, too.”

  As those screens came up, simultaneously there was a shout from somewhere down the hall and a chime.

  The admin’s voice rang out throughout the RosaRing.

  “Attention, all staff. We have a distant Jump arrival confirmed and are awaiting ID. Scan Security, please man your stations. Timing is appropriate for our Year Three Rendezvous.”

  Verita grinned, even though she’d known. She had so much to share with Kiland, doubtless he for her.

  In the meantime, she had a decision to make.

  She leaned back, sniffing at the flight paths now on screen as if she could scent a hint of ammonia, or of the crystalline precipitate which sometimes wafted to the gravel beds left behind after the flush of spring floods.

  The pressure gradients were in flux. The stronger of the atmospheric currents had tunneled through the flat current they called the mesostream, which sometimes held considerable water vapor. The visualization showed a convective dance then, as if ramped high into the sky by the volcanic uplands, high into the stratopause.

  Technically, the drones were not to fly as low as the stratopause, where the temperatures neared the freezing point of water. In such conditions microbes might be found on normal worlds.

  Verita made her decision.

  “Call them home.”

  Averil 04, 407 CSY

  “What’s the measure on that? Are we even at the right star? Where’s the gassers?”

  Kiland’s sarcasm was inappropriate if nearly inaudible.

  Automatics admitted that yes, Implacable had come to the right place despite her recalcitrant Struven units and the haste of their departure. The gas giants rolled in their orbits, the companion brown dwarf continued its distant, lonely journey three quarters of a light-year away among rocky clouds of debris. He read them that quickly, but his crew . . .

  His crew checked their instruments, followed protocol, eventually they nodded at him.

  He signaled the traditional arrival announcement. It went out without the usual time-to-dock though, and he . . . did the math himself, signaling the sub-captain to do the
same.

  “Shield at basic,” he said, but the automatics were seeing to that, the junior officers chasing behind, just in case.

  “Weapons checks, threats?”

  There were no threats.

  At full in-system power it would take them days just to overcome the fractional errors; right now they were moving at significant velocity away from their target. The revamped crew was still learning the ship—Admiral Smit’s veteran crew would never have arrived so far off the mark, or so unsure of the recover.

  “Attention, Implacable, we are arrived and making our way to the RosaRing. This will not be a twelve-day jaunt; expect full maintenance routines. Deck officers set duty cycles. Acceleration alerts within the hour.”

  Kiland looked to the sub-captain.

  “Three channels, in the clear, Captain. The time signals are there, but no space weather roundups. The orbital elements are automatic, but the star observation reports ought to be continuous.”

  “Record what’s there, get us synced, ask for what’s missing. Send captain’s regards to the RosaRing’s Trikandle Expedition. Tell them we’re bringing treasures from home. Once comm schedules are established, send and request the archives. In the meanwhile, let us compare projected courses, shall we? We have work to do.”

  Averil 05, 407 CSY

  From Principal Investigator via RosaRing Secure COMM 7 for Captain’s Eyes Only

  Point A: My joy and strength, the investigation has moved rapidly beyond experiment and is well into proof. The rover pair are the perfect delivery system—I utilize testing systems on board to recreate the binary delivery methods outlined in the records we inherited. These are superior organisms, they continue to multiply not only in the track of the vehicles, as I’d intended, but well beyond. I expect great things, and find myself limited by materials and conditions on station. I expect you may solve many of my minor problems.

  Point B: I remain your devoted slave at all times.

  PI Verita

  Averil 7, 407 CSY

  From Captain, Implacable, to RosaRing Secure COMM 7 for Principal Investigator Only

  My Beauty Beyond All, you astound me with your progress, which is prodigious and worthy. You exceed our original goals for so early a date. My progress is less pleasing, our dreams delayed by both orbital mechanics and politics.

  Admiral Smit’s retirement was received with much division. His ascension to council head was contested and defeated; he demurred taking vice chair. My position is at risk; the opposition demanded the immediate dismantling of Implacable as a threat to border peace. This failed, but our military mission has been de-emphasized, and my term on the Fleet Council, which is statutory as Implacable’s commander, may end after this voyage.

  My crew is far less than full strength. Many retirements and cost-balancings have gone into effect. Review the appended, please. Many experienced officers and crew were replaced by fresh graduates, as if I head a training squad!

  Implacable’s whole mission is a bargaining point between the parties, as a support ship for the RosaRing. We shall move forward. Your success is paramount to our success.

  I am, as always, willing to command such an eager supplicant. Remember that in restriction is liberation.

  Captain Kiland

  They had in the course of their bed-talk discussed much that was secret and that stood her in good stead now. The charts, spreadsheets, and projections revealed Kiland as an optimist. Ship’s provisioning had suffered. Even a five-year mission was perilous. Weaponry updates were off the budget, savings were achieved by replacing seasoned staff with new graduates, positions left empty, and militia called up for training. Ship’s company included too few experienced pilots, and too many untested crew.

  Alone in her suite, Verita suffered for Kiland. His setback made her success ever more important. Re-energized by his necessity, she applied herself more fully to duties at hand.

  Averil 14, 407 CSY

  From Principal Investigator via RosaRing Secure COMM 7 for Captain’s Eyes Only

  My Strength and Direction, one is desolate to be less than perfect in all things for you. I must request technical aid as well as spiritual solving. So often your lessons bring me clarity.

  In the face of Station Admin’s orders to conserve fuel can Implacable offer assistance until the fuel and drones you carry are delivered? Might a more militant drone-recovery protocol be employed? Can you read signals and plot better courses? Assure me—assure the station!—with your guidance.

  I suggest and cannot demand; my Strength reflects yours at all times.

  Your latest lesson assists my considerations and will be recalled as often as possible until we are joined again in the harmony of a Perfected Evening.

  PI Verita

  Kiland’s tactical officers enjoyed the challenge of the long-distance scan and solve; they caught the orders as a frolic, as if they were back at school. He had them look for ways to improve the drone’s routes, to search for threats in the system, and all threats to the RosaRing. They daily requested more information from the ring. They worked with energy, concentration, amusement.

  He was less amused than concerned. The ship’s skills depended far more on the practicing of things his staff recalled only from school than they ought.

  As captain he deserved a crew capable of supporting his—and the ship’s—necessities. Therefore he would push the boundaries of these youngsters. They would become the crew Implacable deserved. Each order would be carried out with dedication and devotion. Each solution would be born of submission to the necessity of mission. They would learn. The sub-captain in particular needed growth if he were to serve as a proper second.

  Averil 17, 407 CSY

  From Captain, Implacable, to RosaRing Secure COMM 7 for Principal Investigator Only

  Sweet Touch of A Giving Noon, the crew relishes drone tracking. We thank you for the opportunity. The more experienced appear reticent to enjoy our adoption of a Joint Mission. The brightest see that dedication to Mission is all they want.

  Your administrator professes surprise at Implacable’s ability to compute simple math and solve minor problems in interception. Yes, we can access the telemetry channels of your drones; we pick up signals from your rovers as well. Confederation leaders at many levels lack understanding of what this ship is and what it can do, as they lack an understanding of the RosaRing’s potential. We will show them all; we will demonstrate that, together, we can transform planets.

  Your administrator embraces details? Perhaps you may offer her more to deal with, so that she may be fully involved in details. She need not be overly concerned with flight planning now that the RosaRing is again in Implacable’s shadow.

  The tender’s copilot is a former naval officer; he ought have none of the finicky training the head pilot admires. I append a flight plan for the tender—discussed at mess among the more forward of my sub-officers—which may permit the tender to better retrieve your drones as well as utilize the gravity well to regain lost energy.

  I have engaged the copilot in a radio correspondence; we discuss a campaign long past in which a ship not unlike the tender was able to overperform simple guidelines designed for ordinary pilots. I, of course, have no orders to give about what must be pilot’s choice, nor you; we may simply discuss, suggest, and request.

  I remain devoted to the Delicate Delights and such arts you perfect through me, I admonish you to please yourself and please me in all you do.

  Captain Kiland

  Averil 18, 407 CSY

  The pilot’s message was not quoted in full; it was apparent that Kiland’s suggestions had been acted upon. Alas, the pilot and copilot were barely on speaking terms. She? She was unnerved by information that there were now stains on the skin of the tender, where it had driven deeper into the atmosphere than ever before, bringing with it all of the drones. It was a daring mission, no doubt. The pilot had been on sleep shift when the dive sequence began and went to the administrator straight away after the
y’d returned to the RosaRing. The tender pilot . . .

  The tender pilot was not a biologist.

  The tender pilot was not a chemist.

  The pilot was a pilot. Stains on her ship offended her; and she found them a clear sign that pilot and copilot needed a break, each from the each.

  There were also stains on the drones, which the pilot cared about not one whit. That was someone else’s job. Drones were tended by their own staff, their samples double-checked in the lab.

  Verita grimaced. She’d been enjoying a crew amused by the understanding that the Implacable’s captain and their own prime investigator were a link-couple. Now she needed to become again the firm scientist and see the entirety of the crew reminded of the necessity for proper isolation technique and contamination control sequences.

  Cha-bling went the annunciator. The administrator’s direct line shattered the usual screen image, followed by an image of the administrator herself, chewing her lips, staring at the screen still blank on her end.

  Verita composed herself with a deep breath and a straightening of her lab coat; she moved three empty stim cups from screen range. Another centering breath and she was ready to be distantly polite . . . .

  “Your comm fails to display, Verita. If you are present, reply so I don’t have to send a messenger. This is rather important!”

  She composed her expression to what she hoped was a look of general, unalarmed interest, then finished her reach to activate the visual display on her end.