Singularity Point

by Brian Smith

  “Hell, XO, it’s been all we can do so far not to do that! Sure, we can! A little help from up forward wouldn’t go amiss, either. I’m getting short on bodies back here. Doc Keibler is patching suits about once a minute right now.”

  Ford felt a flush of warmth: just hearing Doc Keibler was alive and well cheered him inexplicably. “Okay, chief—make it gradual, but sucker them. I’ll see about getting you some help. Tell your people that we’re making headway up here—we’re going to win this! Don’t give up!”

  “Wasn’t planning to, sir!”

  “Does anyone else feel that?” Sims suddenly asked. “In your inner ear? Feels like we’ve got a good tumble going.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Gordon replied. “But, yeah, I think I feel it, too.”

  Ford paused what he was doing. At first he thought he was getting dizzy as his air went low. He’d already hit himself with one respirocyte injector; his suit air was going stale, and talking was getting to be torturous now. Now that he’d stopped and paid attention, though, . . .

  “Bridge, combat. Mr. Yoon—”

  “I was just about to call you, sir. We took a stray hit in one of the deuterium tanks. It’s venting, and tumbling us. I can’t counter with the RCS thrusters we have working right now. It’s going to get slightly worse until the tank finishes bleeding out. The good news is we’re twisting crazily, like a balloon someone let go of before tying it off—there’s no way Marineris is going to match up to dock until we counter that.”

  “So, what you’re telling me is that our point-defense cannon isn’t going to do us much good, even if we get it working.”

  “Or the railgun turret, or the particle-beam turret,” Yoon confirmed. “We can’t stabilize to fire them right now. If we had a torpedo . . .”

  “They’d just shoot it out of the sky,” Gordon interjected.

  “That depends, Gordo,” Yoon countered. “They’re still close, point blank, and I doubt they’ve seen a reason to put out any defensive rounds as a just-in-case. If we got one off, their reaction time would be zilch.”

  “Point blank is right,” Sims added. “At this range, we’d frag ourselves.”

  “It’s moot anyway—we don’t have one,” Gordon said.

  “Yes, we do,” a new voice said over the net.

  “Who’s that? Speak up!” Gordon barked.

  “Portside torpedo room, aft. Gunner’s Mate First Class Galloway here.”

  “Give us a SITREP, Galloway.”

  “We’re secure back here, sir—well away from the strife. We denetworked our own power bus when the word went out, and tapped a little juice off the aft APU to get the lights on. All our automation is down. We basically just disassembled the loading mechanism and pushed the only accessible warshot into Tube Three—not as hard as it sounds, in zero-g. We can set and fire the weapon manually, but there’s only one problem: she’s a special—one of our defensive birds. She’s programmed for counterfire, not offensive fire. That’s simple enough to change, even manually, but she goes off at about a hundred kilotons. Standing by for orders, sir.”

  Dead silence reigned in the CDC as all eyes turned to stare at Ford. He didn’t move for several seconds, then keyed the circuit to the bridge. “Mr. Yoon, how long until that leaking tank runs dry?”

  “Thirty seconds, XO. Then we’re on a steady tumble and I can begin working a solution to countercorrect.”

  “Optics, can you get a good enough look through the scopes to work a rough visual firing solution through this tumble? It’s a math problem, really. Once we let the torpedo fly, she goes tangential to whatever goofy vector we fire on. Then it has to make one turn, essentially toward the target, and bore in with all she’s got. We need two pieces of information: what to plug into the bird, and a time hack for turning her loose. It’s kind of like a burn problem, Amy, but one with totally hosed-up keplers. Can you run it?”

  “I can run it, sir, but the real question is, do we want to use it? We’re probably going to kill ourselves along with Marineris.”

  “She’s going to kill us if we don’t, and run this game on someone else next—maybe even one of the sister ships in our squadron, if they aren’t taken already. Run the numbers, Ensign Tanner.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Tanner replied. She finally sounded scared.

  “Combat, bridge. I just had a stroke of genius,” Yoon sent.

  “We could sure use one, Mr. Yoon.”

  “Ship’s boats, sir. They’re docked externally. We can’t use their torches, obviously, but the way they snug in, we can use two each of their RCS thrusters as our own if we keep them hard-docked alongside. I can stabilize the tumble and turn us stern-on, and we can light them for all they’re worth as we take our one shot. The torch bell should shield us from the worst of it anyway. It’ll probably wreck the bell, but the ship might pull through.”

  “Heh! And we’ll all need a big dose of Mindy!” someone added.

  “If we point our torch bell at Marineris, she has to assume we’ve got our reactor back online and that we’re planning to melt her. She’ll put a rail salvo straight up our ass and blow us apart,” Gordon said. “What about casting off one of the boats and firing her torch straight into Marineris?”

  Ford shook his head under his helmet.

  “Good idea, but not enough oomph. The boat torches are too small. It would slag part of Marineris where the plume hit her, but then it would pull away fast on the burn, and Marineris would just shoot her—if she even bothered.”

  Even as he said it, he realized the trap they were falling into here: they had a solution that would win the battle but probably kill them in the process. Now they were casting about for ways to win and survive, but the clock was ticking. Marineris needed to be stopped, and if sacrificing themselves was the only way, then that went with the oath. Still, Jim Ford was human. He didn’t want to die, and recently he’d found a whole lot more to live for than ever before. There was also that part of him that refused to give up—a refusal to accept defeat or death. His people were fighting their hearts out, counting on him to get them through this. Don’t give up the ship!

  Ford made his decision. “Mr. Yoon, find a couple gyro jocks and get them into the boats—don’t fire up the reactors, just their aux-power units. Use the gyros in the boats to begin stabilizing our tumble without using thrusters—there’s no way for anyone in Marineris to know that we aren’t using Reuben James’s own gyros to do it. Work your numbers and get them transferred. When Amy has a solution and we’re all set, we’ll execute all of it at once. We’ll start with an RCS burn. For the first few seconds it will look like we’re just trying to open the distance—to prevent them from redocking and get us moving away. Then we take the shot, and as soon as the weapon is away, we swing our stern around and use the bell as a shield.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Yoon replied.

  Sims looked hard at the XO. “Think we have a chance, sir?”

  “There’s always a chance, Sims,” Ford replied, trying to keep hope alive.

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Gordon mumbled to himself under his helmet, thankfully unheard by the others.

  ***

  “Ready to copy,” Gunner’s mate Galloway reported a few minutes later. She listened as ENS Tanner passed her the numbers, and then punched them into the computer hardlined to the weapon in the tube. This was the sort of exercise you did only once or twice during initial training and then never again, even in drills. It was such a slow, inefficient, backward way of programming and firing a weapon, she’d have bet money against ever having to do it—yet here she was, doing it.

  One of her people, GM3 Castagna, was watching as Galloway plugged the data entry. He tapped her on the shoulder before she made the next-to-last input, the one about detonation delay. “Hey, give it about two-tenths of a second, amiga,” he suggested.

  Galloway paused, her gloved finger poised over the keypad. She thought about it for half a second, then grinned and nodded.
She made the input.

  “You’re a genius, Carlos.”

  “You know it.”

  ***

  “XO, this is Chief Hogan. SITREP.”

  “Go ahead, chief.”

  “Whatever you’re going to do, sir, you’d better do it. I gave up a fortified position to sucker them aft, and now they’re pressing even harder.”

  “They’re about to get hit from behind. Help is coming your way, as promised. Start mopping them up.”

  The chief laughed in his ear. “Can do, sir, unless they mop us up first!”

  “Bridge, TAO,” Gordon sent. “Status?”

  “Tumble is stabilized,” Yoon reported.

  “We’re ready, then. Weapon and solution are go. Ready to execute on the mark.”

  “Conn is ready,” Yoon reported.

  “Boat one is ready.”

  “Boat two, ready.”

  “Execute on the mark,” Ford ordered.

  “Yes, sir, here we go. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . execute, execute, execute!”

  “Fire thrusters!” Yoon ordered.

  The pilots of both boats complied; everyone aboard felt a sluggish hint of acceleration as four small RCS thrusters strained to move the frigate. It was barely 0.1-g, but it was acceleration.

  “Three . . . two . . . one . . . Fire!” Gordon ordered.

  “Firing,” Galloway replied. “Weapon away!”

  “Executing correction,” Yoon called from the bridge.

  In the boats, the RCS thrusters altered their burn pattern and the boats’ maneuvering gyros spun as fast as they could—the pilots had disengaged the limiters on them, willing to burn them out for the slightest advantage in their precession rate. In space, Reuben James swung around like a half-dead whale, gradually coming stern-on to the Marineris.

  In the end, the quick wit of two gunner’s mates was what spared Reuben James; Ford’s modified plan wouldn’t have been enough on its own. Instead of detonating on contact with the tender’s outer hull, the detonation delay meant that the torpedo didn’t explode until it penetrated just past the center of the tender’s interior.

  The resulting blast emanated from the heart of the tender, almost as though one of her own weapons had gone off internally. The nuclear fireball consumed USS Marineris but largely spared the smaller Reuben James. The frigate shuddered under the nearby blast, then tumbled anew as chunks of debris smashed away parts of her torch bell and gouged a few new breaches into her abused hull.

  Then it was over and she had survived—tumbling slowly through the asteroid belt while her surviving crew members fought tooth and nail for possession of their stricken ship.

  Chapter 13

  Marsnet Headline News—the Most Trusted Infostream in the Inner System!

  Top newsfeeds trending on MHN:

  -Martian independence! The Mars Coalition announced today that it has merged with the Ares Freedom Alliance, forming the United Mars Federation (UMF) and establishing a unified political front for an independent red planet. Schroeter Habitat was declared the interim Martian capital, and a constitutional convention has been convened. At this time, no claims of Martian sovereignty have been made over flagged territories. UMF leadership has stated that a firm, Mars-based government must be established before Mars can effectively negotiate with the governments of Terra. The Trans-Oceanic Alliance has issued a joint statement with the Chinese Federal Republic and Pan-European Alliance that the establishment of the UMF is in direct contravention to the lunar and Martian treaties.

  -GMS endorses the UMF! The leadership of the Green Mars Society declared its support and recognition of the newly formed United Mars Federation. The following statement was issued by GMS leadership earlier today: “A free and independent Mars, united under a single Martian government, is a necessary and crucial prerequisite to beginning serious terraforming efforts.”

  -The Crandall Foundation—still apolitical? In a bombshell revelation, Haley Bujold, chairman of the Green Mars Society consortium, has released footage showing Crandall Foundation chairman Carter Drayson meeting with key leaders of the Martian Coalition and the Ares Freedom Alliance. Although critical of the Crandall Foundation in the past, Bujold praised Drayson’s efforts to aid in the creation of the UMF and called for the Crandall Foundation to “step up its efforts” in the fight to establish a free and independent Mars. The Crandall Foundation has released a short statement reaffirming its nonpolitical status and refuses to comment further. Chairman Drayson himself was unavailable for comment.

  -Mars Independence Movement endorses the UMF! Gabriel Rogan, speaking from an undisclosed location, has praised and endorsed the creation of the UMF. He further states that “as a militant organization involved in actively resisting the occupation of Martian territory by Terran governments, MIM efforts will remain separate from those of the UMF to prevent armed reprisals against sovereign Marsmen’s establishing their own fledgling government.” The CFR response was to double the bounty on Gabriel Rogan, who remains at large in the wake of his masterminding of the Tongling massacre.

  -UMF immensely popular among Marsmen! Independent polls conducted in nonflagged cities show overwhelming support for the idea of an independently governed Mars, and excitement over the constitutional convention in Schroeter. Polls conducted in flagged territories also show unexpected levels of support, but the numbers vary by nationality. Support for independence is highest in PEA territories and lowest in Japanese and American territories, with the CFR and the remainder of the TOA nations falling between the two.

  November 28, 2093 (Terran Calendar)

  Barsoom Traders Company Headquarters

  Kasei Spaceport, Mars

  “Welcome back, Dakota,” Ty Forester said warmly, stepping out from behind his desk to exchange a handshake with Thuvia’s unsmiling captain. “That was one hell of a job you pulled off out at Achilles, preventing your ship from being hit and boarded! One hell of a job! You must have heard about Dejah Thoris’s being recovered as well. I didn’t hear anything back from you on that. You got the word, right? She’s being escorted in by a navy frigate, due to make orbit day after tomorrow.”

  “I got the word,” Ashburn replied, his gaze locked on the quiet figure of Bill Campbell, who was standing somewhat apart from them. “Anything further on her crew? on Captain Xiang?” Ashburn asked.

  “All lost, I’m afraid,” Forester replied, looking mournful. “At least the navy nailed the bastards responsible, though! It’s a damn dirty shame, is what it was. A damn shame! I’m just grateful you were able to stop something similar happening to your ship.”

  “Me, too,” Ashburn replied. He held up a data card, still locking eyes with Campbell. “This is what you wanted,” he added curtly. “Captain Xiang had a copy as well. Obviously she didn’t get back to you with it.”

  Campbell nodded, tight-lipped. From the moment Ashburn walked into the office, Campbell wondered if the younger man might just take a swing at him. It didn’t help that Ashburn was looking healthier and far more solid than the last time the two men had seen each other. The torchship captain had been suffering from the early ravages of undiagnosed cancer back when Campbell asked his favor, but that was no longer the case. Ashburn had spent the last couple of months working out in anticipation of a full-g environment, a week in full gravity on Ell-4, and then another two weeks on Earth itself. He was fit and tan, and to the two Crandall trustees he looked strong enough to wrestle alligators. It was obvious he wasn’t convinced that his ill luck was unrelated to his flyover of Janus Station at Titan, and it was clear that he blamed Campbell. The recovery of Dejah Thoris did little to mollify him, especially once he learned that his former shipmates were all dead.

  Forester reached out and easily took the data card from Ashburn’s hand. “Yes. Let’s have a look at that,” he said with a sharp glance of his own at Campbell. “I’m sure you don’t mind, under the circumstances, right?” he asked heavily.

  Campbell sighed.
“I suppose not. It’s all academic now anyway, eh?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Ashburn asked.

  “Any reason not to fill him in?” Forester asked Campbell, and then looked back at Ashburn. “It’ll probably put your mind at ease, Dakota, having a little more information. If looks could kill, old Bill there would be six feet under!” he chuckled.

  “All right,” Campbell agreed. “Janus Station is a computer facility, Captain Ashburn. A very advanced one, designed to help us engineer Project Daedalus. Nothing more sinister than that, except that the computer’s design was advanced enough to be considered illegal under Earth’s various laws restricting artificial intelligence. Hence the location. Hence the secrecy. I asked you to do your overflight because one of my employees, the facility director, appeared to have overstepped her bounds and done an end run around me. This data should prove whether I was right or not, but as Ty said, the entire matter is academic now anyway. The computer was shut down weeks ago and is undergoing disassembly. You and your ship were never in any sort of danger at Titan, and there was no corporate warfare or anything like that involved. The truth is, I am Janus Industries in every way that counts, as you already know. What happened afterward was pure bad luck and coincidence. At least we can prove that much, now that the fate of your company’s torchship is no longer a mystery.”

  “I see,” Ashburn replied neutrally. He waited while Forester accessed the data and networked the three of them in for a simultaneous review.

  They watched for a few minutes—a few minutes in which Ashburn relived the flyover of Janus Station in his mind. Here, in a sterile office on Mars and smoothed over by Campbell’s sheepish admissions, it all seemed rather mundane and anticlimactic. The data itself didn’t look like much, given the readings taken by the spaceplane’s limited sensors. None of the men said anything further until the replays were complete. When it was over, Forester looked curiously at Campbell.