Imperative - eARC

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by Steve White


  Ankaht found herself growing impatient. “Which is—what?”

  Wethermere shrugged. “A warp point generator. More specifically, one half of a matched pair. This one was bound for Bellerophon, where it would have been activated later this year, at the same instant its twin would have been triggered in Sigma Draconis.”

  “Yes,” Kiirathra’ostakjo confirmed with a slow sweep at his whiskers. “The formation of the warp point required that all checkpoints and waypoints were reached on schedule. Any variation activated an abort contingency. The PSU administrators in charge of establishing what was to be the Unity Warp Point Six would not go forward under any circumstances, at this point. They have no way of confirming the fate and whereabouts of my half of the warp point generator. Indeed, they will now logically fear that it may have fallen into Amunsit’s hands, and may ultimately be reverse-engineered by her technicians so that she may change the strategic pathways of the current conflict, possibly outflanking us. Which is why it must be returned to Rim Federation space as soon as possible.”

  “Not Orion space, Least Fang?” Ankaht asked.

  The Orion admiral’s gaze faltered. “No. Orion space is—in turmoil. We have had news from the most recent ships that we have integrated into our flotilla. It is news that we kept quiet, at least until we could ascertain its veracity. But it is now confirmed by the crew of the emergency courier we picked up two days ago, the one that had been bound for the Zephrain system, but had to hide here when she ran afoul of Amunsit’s rearguard patrols. And the news the courier has confirmed is—troubling.”

  Wethermere seemed as surprised as Ankaht. “How bad?”

  “Our capitol, the world you humans call New Valkha, is destroyed. The Arduans’ relativistic kinetic kill vehicles struck there as well, reduced it to a mantle-shattered ruin. And their ships were there within hours of that bombardment—a massive fleet of them.”

  “But how could Amunsit’s ships get there so quickly?” Ankaht wondered.

  “They didn’t.” Wethermere, still looking at Kiiraathra’ostakjo, nodded, understanding. “It’s a different fleet. Damn it. Those flares were new inbound Arduan Dispersates, weren’t they?”

  The Least Fang worked his jaw fretfully. “It seems so. My people are facing many more ships than Amunsit could have created—many, many more. And there are some reports that the same torrents of kinetic kill vehicles that cleared away the forts in the Amadeus system have been used to shatter many other worlds, even whole systems, in the PSU and beyond. It is difficult to distinguish the genuine news from the terror-spawned rumors, but we may be sure of this: the Khanate is crippled. Its leadership is scattered and in flight, but probably heading back to gather at Old Valkha.”

  “I thought your true homeworld had been rendered—uninhabitable.” Ankaht kept her phrasing carefully oblique. The fate of the Orions’ planet of origin was a source of some embarrassment to them, as it had long been a prime argumentational “proof of Orion aggression and instability” by the race’s most bigoted detractors.

  Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s reply was preceded by a low-chested rumble. “We have attempted to restore Old Valkha. There has been considerable progress, but it is still an—an unpleasant world. But that matters little, now, because its history alone makes it the single most important planet left in the Khanate. It is the heart of our honor and the womb of us all. Our leaders will go there to rally the families and clans and plan a war such as we have never fought before. I would go there, as well”—the muscles along his long jaw rippled spasmodically—“but I may not. My duty is to see this half of the warp point generator to safety. And there is no safety to be found in the Khanate now.”

  Ankaht sat slightly more erect; she was certain her next observation would not be cheering to the Orion admiral. “Least Fang, I fear that there may be no safety traveling further along our present path, either. Once we leave this system, we have but one choice other than returning to the heart of the Khanate: to follow your planned path forward to Zephrain. There are many branching paths by which we may come there, of course, but all eventually gather at that system like the many courses of a sprawling watershed collect into a single river. And I do not see how you plan to get through Amunsit’s fleet.”

  “You are, of course, correct,” Kiiraathra’ostakjo agreed. “That is why I do not plan to get through her fleet, but rather, around it. Once word of these events reaches the Bellerophon Arm, I am sure that Admiral Yoshikuni will move swiftly to bring her main fleet elements up to join the home fleet under Admiral Watanabe in Zephrain itself. Together, I am fairly sure they will be able to defeat Amunsit. Admiral Yoshikuni has one of the most impressive lists of capital ships on record. Her devastators and superdevastators will make short work of Amunsit’s formations, no matter how great their numbers. And so, if we shadow Amunsit’s formations at a respectable distance, then, when we see them shift forward to join battle with the full Rim Federation fleet, we shall know to watch for any moment of chaos and uncertainty in the Arduan ranks. We shall use that moment to move around her formations, slip back to our own fleet, and continue onward toward Bellerophon, bringing the warp point generator out of the range of the front lines.”

  Ankaht acknowledged the wisdom of the strategy. “Most prudent, Least Fang. But I am unsure you have fully realized the significance of a troubling piece of data that was gathered as we watched Amunsit’s fleet overwhelm our own.”

  “And what data is that?” he asked. Wethermere leaned forward.

  “It might seem strange to think in terms of the smallest of warcraft, rather than the largest, but did you note Amunsit’s immense waves of fighters?”

  “I certainly did. And it puzzled me: fighters are almost incapable of damaging the first-rate of capital ships, these days. It seemed a profound waste of so much industrial efforts and raw resources to produce so many fighters.”

  “So it might seem, but consider this, Least Fang: in losing a fighter, Amunsit loses nothing of value.”

  The Orion started. “Granted that you believe your people reincarnate when they are killed, but a fleet cannot be stripped of its trained combat pilots. If that occurred, it would be—”

  “Please attend, Least Fang. Your logic is impeccable, but you miss a key datum. At the end of the last war, our Admiral Narrok introduced an innovation: fighters that were remote-controlled through selnarmic link. The pilots remained safely behind in their carriers. Word of that concept would assuredly have reached Amunsit through the Destoshaz-as-sulhaji who fled to Zarzuela. This means that in every performance metric, their fighters will now match yours, if for no other reason that there is no need to accommodate living beings on board each craft. They will be more efficient, capable of far more wrenching maneuvers, and most importantly, can be expended lavishly without any decrease in the ranks of trained fighter pilots.”

  Wethermere rubbed the fur on top of his head backward. “Which is why we saw Amunsit’s fighters overwhelming the 92nd Reserve Fleet like a nonstop blizzard of gnats. No amount of losses stopped them—and if they got close enough to a capital ship, they simply rammed it. I didn’t believe those reports at first; I thought we were misreading accidental collisions by damaged ships as intentional suicide runs, but now—”

  “Rest assured: your first instincts and perceptions were correct. And if Amunsit has been producing a stockpile of such fighters, it is almost a surety that your own equivalent fighter wings will never achieve parity. Even if your pilots are more seasoned and better trained, they would be crippled by the unrelenting attrition they would experience fighting outnumbered against a foe who risks nothing in the combat.”

  “They ‘would be’ crippled?” repeated the Least Fang grimly. “You foresee a reasonable alternative to engaging the enemy’s fighters?”

  “I do not,” replied Ankaht, who then looked directly at Wethermere. Who was, as she suspected he’d be, still rubbing his hair, but with a familiar, intense, almost dazed look on his face. She had learned it
meant he was not only thinking hard, but had embarked upon ideational pathways that were, to say the least, unconventional.

  Kiiraathra’ostakjo followed Ankaht’s gaze to the human and then grumble-growled. He shook his neck as if being pestered by a hornet. “Oh, no—not more of the captain’s outlandish schemes. I had my fill of those in the last war.”

  “We won those engagements, didn’t we?” Ossian asked with a grin.

  “Yes, and we were very nearly killed each time we did so. It is still a matter of amazement to me that I am alive, and I pay for that past folly by occasionally recollecting how you convinced me to follow such bizarre schemes. And now you would have me do so again?” Despite Ankaht’s rudimentary understanding of Orion body-language, she could tell that the Least Fang was struggling mightily to suppress one of his race’s closed-mouth grins.

  “Oh well,” Ossian replied with a raised hand, “if you’d rather I didn’t contribute to our strategy—”

  “Cease being—what do you humans say?—coy, Ossian Wethermere. I suppose habit alone requires that I listen to yet another one of your wild plans. First, tell me how you propose to match Amunsit’s waves of fighters in open combat.”

  “By not engaging them at all.”

  Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s eyes closed. “And so the madness begins again. Explain this to me, human: how do we defeat craft without engaging them?”

  Ossian shrugged. “Let me start with an analogy: if I shatter a dam to flood a valley so my enemies may not march across it to reach my forces, have I not, practically speaking, defeated them?”

  The Orion opened one eye—grudgingly. “I suppose we may allow this conclusion—for sake of argument. But when the waters recede, your enemies will still be there.”

  “Yes—but I won’t be.”

  The Least Fang reclosed his eye, his brow lowering as if he was attempting to suppress an imminent headache. “And so you mean to simply flee? Again?”

  “We would not be fleeing, Least Fang, but moving toward a new objective.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which we don’t know. Yet.”

  The Orion’s brow had lowered to the point where his shut eyes were almost lost in folds of his flexible, furred hide. “I forgot how unpleasant this part of your scheming was, Ossian Wethermere. In the past, I think I ultimately agreed with you simply to stop the pain. I will be stronger, this time. Explain yourself fully.” Kiiraathra’ostakjo muttered the last sentence in a tone as fatalistic as that commonly used by condemned men to utter their last words.

  “There’s really not a lot to explain,” Wethermere assured the Orion. Ankaht secretly doubted the human’s claim, but did not interrupt. “It’s all just a matter of deduction, given what you just told us about the relativistic kinetic kill vehicles striking throughout the PSU, Kiiraathra. Those multiple attacks, all happening at the same time, are not chance. Which means that Amunsit knows—or has a pretty damned good idea—of where these new strikes are landing, and where the new Arduan fleets are going to show up. And if that’s true, they might not be worried about what we wrongly perceive as their ‘rear area’—because it might not be a rear area. Amunsit may be counting on whatever fleet hit New Valkha to watch her back as she moves toward Zephrain.”

  “Yes, but Amunsit cannot be sure that we do not have units—whole fleets even—in between those two forces.”

  “Maybe…but maybe not. What if Amunsit’s agents plotted out all our strategic concentrations over the past six years, tracked them through redeployments? If she did, then it’s a surety she passed that info on to the new Dispersates.”

  Kiiraathra’ostakjo shook his head. “How would Amunsit have such ability, though? I mean no offense,” he said, turning deferentially in Ankaht’s direction, “but not even the Councilor or the other most accomplished shaxzhu of the First Dispersate possess such ability.”

  “I can’t tell you how. But, in considering if there’s an alternative explanation, let me ask you this: if Amunsit doesn’t have that ability, then how did she manage to ensure that those kinetic kill vehicles took out the forts keeping her fleet out of the Amadeus system? And if that tells us that she was able to send targeting data to the inbound Dispersates, it also tells us that she could send any other strategic data she might have, as well. Naval depots, transport hubs, command and control nexi, industrial centers: they would have targeted all that, and more. However, it seems unlikely that the new Dispersates would have had the resources to hit them all.”

  “Which is the only reason that this is still a war, not a slaughter.”

  “Yes,” Wethermere concurred, “but it’s also an opportunity.”

  “What kind of opportunity? To strike back?”

  “Yes, eventually. At a time and a place of our choosing. Fighters and all. Because the actions and placement of Amunsit and the new Dispersates gives us an opportunity to glimpse their strategy.”

  Ankaht saw it. “Of course. Since the new Dispersates cannot target everything, what they struck must point toward what they need to achieve, their larger strategic plan.”

  Ossian nodded. “Exactly. But to gather that information, we need to stay almost totally hidden. Happily, this system is an excellent choice for that. However, we will still have to gather more news on what was struck, and where other Dispersates have arrived, so we must send out a recon unit. We have to both keep tabs on the progress and position of the Zarzuela fleet and also learn more about other strikes. Once we have enough intelligence, and have sorted the truth out from the rumors, we’ll be ready to know where to go.”

  Kiiraathra’ostakjo seemed to have forgotten his headache. “Let us presume that your conjecture about there being other Arduan fleets in other directions is accurate. Let us also accept your conjecture that their commanders are not concerned with rear security. In that event, Amunsit might not attempt to press into the Bellerophon Arm but, rather, hold the narrow approaches from it to keep Admiral Yoshikuni’s immense fleet bottled up there.”

  “That’s true.”

  “In which case, following the logic of your plan, we might end up fleeing to safety back along the route we have just come. Into whatever sprawl of chaos the Khanate has become in the invaders’ wake.”

  “That, too, is true,” Wethermere conceded with a nod.

  Kiiraathra’ostakjo shook his ruff. “In the years that have passed, Wethermere, you have changed in only one way.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Your plans have ceased to be outrageous; now, they are utterly insane. So, quickly: detail our reconnaissance unit’s intelligence-gathering protocols before I change my mind. Or put one of us out an airlock.”

  “Which one of us?”

  “I haven’t made up my mind about that either. Yet.”

  Part Three

  The Flood

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  After knocking on the tall doors, Admiral Yoshi Watanabe waited until a smoky contralto voice thready with age bade him enter the office of the Rim Federation’s Consular Liaison for Arduan Affairs.

  The room he entered reminded him of a small cathedral: walls that shrank inward and upward into a high ceiling comprised of a tessellated array of groined vaults. Tall, narrow windows—four meters high, at least—gave the impression of vertical murals depicting the Old Town of some quaint city on distant Earth’s European continent. At the far end, behind a very large mahogany desk, sat an impeccably groomed silver-haired woman whose body still had enough curves to suggest the vital physique that she had possessed many decades ago.

  “Madam Ambassador,” said Watanabe as he saluted.

  “Oh, let’s not be so formal, Yoshi,” Miriam Ortega remonstrated with a smile. “And don’t stand all the way at the door. I can hardly see whether you’re smiling or scowling, from this distance.”

  “Neither, Ms. Ortega.”

  Miriam sighed, rose, came around her desk: it was not a short trip. “Yoshi, for now, in private, you will call me Miriam or I will sprea
d vicious rumors about your love of fluffy toy poodles.”

  “I don’t even have a dog.”

  “That doesn’t matter. I have a way of convincing people on pretty much every planet in the Zephrain system—but particularly here in Prescott. Who’s that lurking behind you?”

  “I’m Hilda Silverman,” offered the young blond woman behind Watanabe. “But everyone calls me Hildy.”

  “Well, will you call me Miriam?”

  “Well, sure I will—Miriam.”

  “See, now, Yoshi? How hard can it be if your adjutant can do it?”

  Watanabe stifled a sigh, walked into the room, hand outstretched toward Ambassador Ortega. Hildy trailed behind with a gait that he could only characterize as “chipper.” “Ms. Silverman is not my adjutant: she’s my flagship’s ‘sensitive.’ The best we’ve got, since Jennifer Pietchkov is—otherwise occupied.”

  “I…see. I do not mean to offend you, Ms. Silverman—you are most welcome, here—but exactly why have you brought your sensitive with you, Yoshi?”

  “Because it is my intent to furnish you with her services, should the coming situation unfold in such a way that you shall need them.”

  Miriam’s smile became slightly more angular, slightly more a matter of self-control than simple affability. “Exactly what are you expecting, Yoshi?”

  Was she really going to make him spell out the obvious? Well, yes, she probably was. That was consistent with what rumor said of her. Miriam Ortega was a formidable figure in Xanadu’s politics. In the Federation government for decades, and its chief justice for almost two decades after that, she had finally stepped down three years ago, citing advanced age and a desire to “freshen” the court by removing her familiar and well-established voice from its deliberations. However, no sooner had she stepped down than Kevin Sanders—the spymaster who, like Miriam, was also ostensibly “retired”—had immediately initiated the suggestion that she be tapped as the Rim Federation’s Consular Liaison to the Arduans of the Bellerophon Arm. His suggestion had not been overt, of course, but when it arrived, it had the hallmarks of his methods and reasoning as clearly as if it had come on his own letterhead.

 

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