by J. N. Chaney
Densmore glanced at Tanner, then back at Thorn. “Stellers, you made me a promise not to—”
“Yes, I did. And I broke it, and I’m sorry for that, but not really. Ma’am, we’re not winning this war. We might not actually be losing it, but we’re not winning it, either. And unless we’re prepared to do what it does take to win it, then people are just going to keep dying in an endless grind of attrition that fills space with corpses and naval families with one question—why.”
Densmore steepled her fingers. “I notice that you didn’t mention this little fact in your report. It’s like you were hoping to cover it up or something—like you knew you were in the wrong.”
Thorn was ready for that, too. “No, ma’am, I just thought it wasn’t the sort of thing I should mention in a report that was going to be read by. . .anyone above my rank.”
“Touché,” Tanner muttered.
Densmore colored with anger. “You’re encouraging him—?”
“No,” Tanner replied. “By no means. Personally, I think Stellers could stand some behavior modification here so he remembers that he’s talking to two senior Captains, and not some fellow junior officers over a drink.” He ended by raising his brows at Thorn.
Thorn shifted uncomfortably. He might have his doubts about Densmore, but he had none about Tanner. Moreover, the idea of disappointing the man actually made him squirm. So he gave a terse agreement of his own, in as neutral a tone as possible. Tanner was an ally, and that had never been in doubt.
“I’m sorry, sir. And ma’am. I’m not wired to be disrespectful. I’m wired to win, so we can put it behind us and get on with whatever comes after a war. I hope it’s some kind of life. I’ve never had one and I know a lot of people who would like to return to theirs.”
Tanner let himself sigh, head shaking. “Understood. Just keep that attitude in mind here, Lieutenant. Not that long ago, the idea of a Lieutenant discussing Fleet strategy with senior officers would be laughable. You get some leeway, given who and what you are. But leeway only goes so far.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now then, I gather that whatever it is that Stellers did is something you object to, Alys,” Tanner went on.
“It is. He did essentially the same thing as when he saved Code Gauntlet from the big rock the squids chucked at it. He, ah, rewrote reality.”
“And that’s bad?” Tanner asked.
She gave a derisive sniff. “Who knows? And that’s the problem. When he changed the fundamentals of how an Alcubierre drive worked to save the FOB, the effects were confined to the Alcubierre bubble around your ship. This time, there wasn’t any such boundary to what he did, so it might have had all sorts of effects we just haven’t seen yet.”
“So, what you’re proposing, then,” Tanner said, “is to do the same thing again, to move a Task Force both through and past Nyctus space, all in one act of ‘casting.”
Thorn nodded. “Exactly, sir. I’ll pull as much power to me as I can handle, and use it to carry the Task Force right to the hydro planet. The squids won’t see it coming, because the conduit isn’t anything they can detect. It’s me.”
“They’ll almost certainly have that planet well defended now,” Tanner said. “But if it’s something he’s already done, then how big a problem is it, really, if he does it again? Wouldn’t the effects already be felt?”
Densmore waved her hand in dismissal, frustrated by a lack of knowing. “Again, who knows? Ultimately, it’s like the butterfly effect. Stellers flapped his wings, and it may amount to nothing, or it may cause a hurricane somewhere—including right here, in ON space.” She leaned back with a sigh. “For all we know, he’s made it possible for the squid shamans to have unlimited power, too, like opening a lock for the entire class of beings who can tap into magic.”
“Okay, if I understand this,” Tanner said, “and trust me, I really don’t, but I’m trying. If I grasp what happened, Stellers made it possible for himself to have more and more magical power, all he needed, just by wanting it to be true, because want is more ethereal than natural laws, and . . . you stepped outside them?”
Thorn hesitated. It was obviously far more complicated than that, and even he was only beginning to untangle the knots of manifesting something as wild as magic—but he nodded anyway. The process was new to him, and it would be utterly incomprehensible to Tanner, who dealt in steel and tactics. “Something like that, sir.”
“So shouldn’t he have all that power now, on tap, so to speak? And if it was something that affected the whole—and I cannot believe I am saying this—the whole freakin’ universe, then should other Starcasters be affected? Do you suddenly have unlimited power, Alys?” Tanner asked.
“Not as far as I know,” she said. “But that’s not the point. Doing that is dangerous. More dangerous than, well, pretty much anything I can imagine. Hell, he could change the universe in some way that makes it impossible for life to exist and, poof, that’s it, that’s all. This is why Fleet ordered him not to do this without their express consent—and why I made him promise me he wouldn’t.”
“But Fleet doesn’t know that Stellers changed the universe again. A phrase, I might add, that goes against everything I’ve known about the business of war.” He paused, then added, “and physics.”
“I just found out,” Densmore replied. “Sitting here, just like you did.”
“Okay,” Tanner said. “Well, I’d suggest we keep that little fact to ourselves for now. If we’re going to do this, let’s go to Fleet clean, asking them for that explicit permission for Stellers to, ah . . . adjust reality again.”
Densmore said nothing. Eventually, though, she nodded, the conflict on her face obvious to anyone looking. She understood the risk. She also grasped the potential.
Tanner turned to gaze at Thorn, in a way that was both casual and intense. When their eyes locked, Thorn understood Tanner to be a man of deep intellect who was threshing an unusual decision. “So, the plan is, using this dangerously powerful thing you do, you’d move our Task Force there, we’d take out this planet, and then you’d bring everyone back home?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s insane,” Densmore said, sitting forward abruptly. “Utterly insane. And even if it actually works, and doesn’t literally screw everything up—we’re planning on wiping out a planet with no apparent military infrastructure, bases, nothing like that.”
Thorn nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Fine. We hit this planet. A world of civilians—of women and children—and then what, Stellers?”
“Then we hit the next one. And the next. And the next after that. And we keep hitting them until there are none left.”
“So, genocide.”
“The squids didn’t have to start this war,” Thorn said evenly. “They didn’t have to attack us, and they didn’t have to reject all of our attempts to open negotiations with them. Seems to me they’re ready for genocide, that that’s what they’re looking for out of all this.” Thorn slowly shook his head. “So, if there’s going to be genocide, I vote we make it theirs, not ours.”
“And what about that other world you found? The one with the Danzur. They’re practically next door to each other. It’s likely they know about the Nyctus. They might even trade with them. Hell, you even said there was evidence that Alcubierre-equipped ships had been in that system not long before you got there. Since they’re only just beginning to experiment with superluminal travel, then whose ships were those most likely to be? Are you going to make an enemy of those people, too?”
Thorn thought about Sophat and his almost charming dedication to the most cumbersome of bureaucracies. “If they’re allies with the Nyctus,” he said, “then they’re already our enemies.”
“So, do we wipe them out as well? Only seems to make sense. Take care of them before they can become a threat.”
“I don’t know, ma’am. Maybe. If it seems necessary.”
“Holy shit,” Densmore said. “Where does this end, St
ellers? What’s next?”
“You know, ma’am,” Thorn snapped, “you’ve insisted to me you aren’t a Skin, and I am inclined to believe you, especially given how serious you are about what I’m proposing. I know this is surreal. I’m in the middle of it, and it still feels like a fever dream, at times, but, ma’am, I have to ask. Don’t you want to win?”
“How dare you, you insolent—win?” Densmore’s face was a mask of fury, and Tanner sat up straighter, seeing the signs of a soldier on the brink of violence. “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing with my life?”
“Spying, ma’am. And everything that entails,” Thorn said flatly.
“You think I don’t want to win because I’m averse to the slaughter of innocents? Well, if that’s being obstructive, then, yeah, I’m obstructive.” She leaned on the table, pushing herself into Thorn’s space. “Maybe I’m being obstructive because I’m not anxious to turn the Fleet into your personal weapon of vengeance, Lieutenant Stellers. Destroying this planet is not going to undo the destruction of Cotswold, or Nebo.”
Before Thorn could respond, Tanner stood, leaned between them, and growled a single word. “Enough.”
The word detonated between Thorn and Densmore like a fusion blast. Thorn winced; Densmore reeled back at the controlled fury of Tanner’s command.
“Both of you, sit down.” Tanner said.
They complied.
“Now then, before this gets out of hand and the two of you start hurling fireballs or whatever the hell you Starcasters do when you get pissed at one another, we’re going to take a moment and regroup.”
“Fine with me,” Densmore said.
Thorn nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“First of all,” Tanner said, his gaze on Thorn, “let’s put an end to this whole question about her dedication to winning the war. Do we really want to cultivate an attitude in the Fleet that anyone who ever says or does something that doesn’t amount to kill every squid is a possible weak link, or worse? How long before we’re spending more time suspecting and investigating ourselves instead of actually trying to win this war?”
“I—yes, sir,” Thorn said.
“What a gift,” Densmore said with a derisive snort, but then she steeled herself with an effort. “I appreciate your vote of confidence about my abilities, Lieutenant, but it isn’t needed,” she replied. “And, for the record, I don’t think Captain Tanner is saying to let your guard down, because there really are Skins out there. But we can’t let that make us paranoid to the point we’re completely paralyzed.”
“Correct,” Tanner said, but now he switched his attention to Densmore. “As for Stellers’s proposal, yes, I have to admit, the idea of bombarding a planet full of what amounts to women and children does not sit well with me. I didn’t join the ON to do things of such putrid morality. We’re not the instigators of this war, and we’re not genocidal.”
“We don’t have to be genocidal to win, sir. But we do if we want to prevent another war,” Thorn said.
“Prove it,” Tanner said.
“A man named Caesar cut off the hand of every Gaul he conquered on Earth. Long ago. Sir,” Thorn said, eyes hard.
“I know my history. The Gauls didn’t sack Rome. The Visigoths did, but one might argue that the Romans consumed themselves from within,” Tanner said, looking around at their setting with a critical eye. Then he stood and walked to the viewscreen, waving at the expanse of imagery. “However, I’m equally anxious to not lose any more people to this war, regardless of who’s doing the killing and how, because Stellers is right—right now, the Nyctus really have no reason to come to the table. They’ve had the strategic initiative since the beginning, and they sure as shit have no hesitation to wipe out our women and children.”
He stopped and looked pointedly at the icon representing the system containing the hydro planet. “If we really can move an entire fleet with magic to this place, obliterate it, and then come right back home again, maybe that will be enough to convince the squiddies to start talking peace. Shit, maybe just having our fleet show up on the doorstep of this water world of theirs will be enough to get them to stand down. At the very least, it should show them we’re not going to screw around.”
He turned back to Densmore and Stellers. “I’m for this idea—reluctantly, I might add, but if we’re going to do this, then I’ll have to put that reluctance aside. I’m prepared to take it to the Fleet Chief of Staff. Alys, what about you?”
She looked from Thorn, to Tanner, and back again. “I’m personally against it,” she finally said. “But I can’t deny the strategic advantage it would give us, if it works. So, professionally, I’ll support it.” She turned to Thorn. “But understand this, Lieutenant. In my heart of hearts, I think this is reckless, and it’s immoral. I further think you’re letting a desire for personal vengeance cloud your judgement. You lost your family on Cotswold, and you have some connection with what happened on Nebo. I don’t know what, exactly, but I know you do.”
She leaned forward. “So, let me share a bit of wisdom with you, Thorn Stellers, for what it’s worth. The very first op I ran was a complete failure. I lost an entire Tiger Team and two mission specialists to the squids in what turned out to be a setup. They dangled a high-value target in front of me like a carrot, and I was only too eager to go for it. I let myself see what I wanted to see, believe what I wanted to believe. I got nine good people killed. I swore I would make the squids pay for it.”
“And did you, ma’am?” Thorn asked.
Densmore smiled faintly, then shook her head. “No, because the Intel Chief at the time yanked me off field duty and stuck me behind a desk. I was furious. I made that more than clear to him. He asked me why I was furious, so I told him—I wanted to kill squids, and he wasn’t letting me.” She looked straight at Thorn. “All he said was, ‘And now you know why you’re behind a desk.’ It took me a while to figure out what, exactly, he meant. It also took me a while to realize he was right.”
She sat back again, looking tired. “Revenge is a powerful motivation, Thorn. It’s also a terrible one. It doesn’t leave room for things like prudence, and discretion—and mercy. And those are important things, Thorn, even in war.”
“Especially in war,” Tanner added.
“So, Lieutenant Stellers,” Densmore said, “I will join Captain Tanner in taking this proposal to Fleet, if that’s what you want. Is that what you want?”
Thorn turned and looked at the screen, at the simple, sterile icon depicting a planet he was proposing to wipe clean of life.
The way Cotswold had been.
The way Nebo had been—
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”
Tanner remained impassive. Densmore, though, just looked sad.
“Then we’ll convince Fleet to do this,” she said. “I just hope that once we have, we can all live with the outcome.”
Thorn said nothing, mired in the hope that he could live with it too.
20
“Okay, Stellers,” Scoville said. “Tell me straight—are you blowing starlight up my ass, or do you really believe you can pull this off?”
Thorn looked around at the people assembled in the briefing room on Code Gauntlet. This one was bigger by far than any likely to be found aboard a ship, and it had the advantage of natural daylight streaming through several skylights. There was room for something like this here at Code Gauntlet, and it lent the room an expanse that made Thorn feel his humanity with each sunbeam.
“Yes,” Thorn finally said. “Sir.” His eyes were neutral, but his spine was straight. Thorn understood the weight of the moment.
Scoville—Rear Admiral Scoville, now, him having been promoted to command of the Third Fleet—crossed his arms. “You’re going to move an entire fleet of ships, using magic, to a point hundreds of light-years away.”
Again, Thorn chose brevity. “Yes, sir.”
Thorn saw glances being exchanged among the others gathered. Besides Scoville, there were a half-do
zen of his staff officers, along with Tanner and Densmore. Mol and Kira sat near the back of the room, ready to speak up on their particular areas of expertise—navigation and flight, and Joining, respectively—but Thorn knew Tanner had really brought them along as moral support for him.
Scoville turned to Densmore. “Alys, I understand that you don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Tactically, I think it’s a brilliant idea, sir,” she replied. “I also think it’s incredibly risky, and the result is going to border on a war crime. At the very least, it’s a huge escalation. If we do this, we don’t know how the squids are going to respond, and frankly, every option has to be on the table to deal with whatever comes next.”
“It’s not like you to be so . . . so wary, Alys,” Scoville said.
“I guess I’m having trouble getting past wiping out a planet with no obvious strategic value,” Densmore said.
Scoville sat back and stretched out his legs. “Agreed that it’s a hard decision to make, but let’s face it—this planet does have strategic value. It’s producing resources for the squid war effort, including baby squids. I’m no fan of getting down in the mud with these bastards, but if they keep hitting our planets with no obvious strategic value, they’re going to choke off our logistics capacity and win this war. And we really don’t want that to happen.”
Scoville stood and walked to the front of the room. “The Allied Stars Ruling Council has given their blessing to this, if Fleet wants to pursue it. The Commander has authorized me to make the final decision.” He looked at Thorn. “We are putting a stellar-mass’s worth of trust in you and your abilities here, Lieutenant. That makes you a single point of failure. We do our best to try and avoid those.”
“I understand, sir. I won’t fail,” Thorn said evenly.
“Alright.” Scoville turned to everyone assembled in the briefing room. “This little jaunt into squid space is now known as Operation Trebuchet. Detailed planning is to commence immediately. A warning order will be issued to the Third Fleet within the hour.” He glanced at the Third Fleet’s Operations Officer, who nodded.