He pulled at his chin. Even before contact, the two ships had been poised to destroy each other.
As he wrestled with the implications, he continued to watch the representational screens, to listen to the comm bands and to wait as the Fordin began to slow in her approach to the nearer satellite.
“Pleutfiere, Empire sur transit Gyros…”
“New Jerusalem, Faust has struck. Michael has been cast down. EDI tracks indicate course shift…”
“Trahison! Couvrey des plaques! Comprennez? Des plaques de Janus et de Gyros…”
“…norstada nil…premiere…Gyros…”
“Cadet Gerswin, Chief Alvera. Specs for maximum surface damage on Gyros, centered on the landing traps and the linear accelerator.”
“Stet,” answered Alvera.
Gerswin said nothing. He looked sideways at the tech, whose movements were slower now, not quick or jerky.
“Hellburner?”
“Not much else. Not enough sealing power in a tachead. Probably take an above surface burst, about five kays. Maybe two. Depends on terrain and separation.”
Gerswin opened his mouth to ask why, but remembered his earlier conversation with the major and shut his mouth without saying a word.
“Good thought, Cadet,” murmured Alvera in a voice low enough not to be heard beyond their consoles. “Good thought.”
Gerswin sighed silently and began to run the problem off on his own console. As he finished, he saw Alvera was waiting.
“Let’s compare.”
Gerswin shrugged and studied Alvera’s solution. Both had recommended two mid-class burners with a five kay separation and a three kay burst height.
“Looks about the same,” he commented to Alvera.
“About identical.” Alvera raised his head and touched the transmit stud.
“Cadet Gerswin, do you concur?”
“My solution is identical to the chief’s, Major.”
“Do you concur?” There was an edge to the velvet voice.
“Yes, ser.”
Gerswin and Alvera sat side by side, neither looking at the other nor talking, but silently viewing the screens and the symbols as they changed.
Gerswin listened to the intermittent transmissions whispering from the comm link, like ghosts about to flee at morning light.
The Fordin shuddered faintly, once, twice.
“Burners away.”
This time the representational screen showed nothing, nothing except the number two followed by a single symbol, both next to the disc labeled “Gyros.”
Gerswin shifted his weight, beginning to feel stiff after nearly three hours hunched before a single console.
“Cadet Gerswin, prepare the specs for a similar interdiction pattern for Janus. Key seven for background. Chief Alvera will verify before you transmit.”
“Yes, ser.”
Another set of hellburners? For what? Another dome and burrow mining and heavy industry settlement on an isolated satellite? For perhaps five thousand, ten thousand people?
Despite his deliberate pace, the equations were easy. Three hellburners—there were two lines of steep hills separating the landing traps, the accelerator, and the comm complex—at a height of one point five kays.
Alvera nodded.
Gerswin transmitted.
“Do you concur, Chief Alvera?”
“Yes, ser.”
Gerswin listened as he waited for the Fordin to complete her creeping approach to Janus, or for his watch to end. But the comm bands were less active now, only a distant garbled whisper or so.
“…got…Michael…out Gyros…”
“…fiela…trahit…Demetros…”
The blinking of a green blip caught his attention, and he concentrated on the representational screen. The blinking green was the Saladin. Had been the Saladin, Gerswin realized as the light flared red and white and vanished, to be replaced with a subscripted line at the bottom of the screen.
“Major said this one would be nasty,” muttered Alvera.
Gerswin did not even shake his head. He didn’t pretend to understand. If the Christers had control of most of the ships and the government, why were they attacking Imperial quarantine vessels? And why was the captain searing the launch and port facilities on Janus and Gyros when they belonged to the Istvennists, who weren’t attacking the Empire?
The Fordin shivered three times, so slightly that Gerswin doubted whether anyone else noticed, wrapped as they were in their own concerns and the interest in the fate of the Saladin.
“Burners away.”
He checked the time. Not too long before Lieutenant G’Maine was due to relieve him.
The course line on the screen changed again, showing the Fordin returning toward the original in-system destination.
Gerswin noted that the red dot that had totaled the Saladin was still headed out the system jump corridor toward the incoming Krushnei.
Given the lag times, they might not know the results of that confrontation until he was back on watch. He shook his head. In-system maneuvering time took so much longer than the between-system jumps.
“Cadet Gerswin, ready for relief?”
G’Maine’s hearty voice startled Gerswin. He hadn’t expected so burly an individual could move so quietly, or, perhaps, he had not been so aware as he should have been. Perhaps his skills were slipping in the confined ship environment. He’d have to work on that.
“Ready for relief, ser.”
Gerswin stood and vacated the console.
“You stand relieved, Cadet.” G’Maine smiled. “From what I’ve heard, you had quite an indoctrination.”
“Yes, ser.” Gerswin nodded. “Also told me how much I don’t know.”
“Good healthy attitude. See you in four.” G’Maine swiveled into position to study the console and the screens.
“Cadet Gerswin?” The voice was the major’s.
“Yes, ser.”
“Would you join me? I’m on my way to the Mess. No seating arrangements during alerts, and I’d like to go over your performance.”
Gerswin wondered what he’d done that merited evaluation. Some of his skepticism must have been communicated to the major.
“Mister Gerswin,” she commented in the antique form of address, “you did well, much better than anyone would have expected. Mathematically, your last solution was better than mine or the chief’s.” Her eyes raked over him, and despite the fact that he was a shade taller than she was, he felt momentarily as though she were looking down at him.
“Let’s go. I’m starved.”
Gerswin matched her quick, short steps.
The mess, predictably, was half full. The major piled her tray high and launched herself toward an empty square table at one side of the narrow dining area. She left the other side for him.
“Sit down. You like the fruits and vegetables, I see.”
Gerswin nodded and pulled his chair into place.
The major took three large mouthfuls of a mixed cheese and meat dish that looked like synthleather covered with glue. Gerswin had avoided it for his fruits, vegetables, and a thin slice of meat that hadn’t seemed to smell too artificial.
He sipped at a glass of water, ignoring the metallic tang that was unnoticeable to anyone else.
Tammilan walked in, smiling, between two junior navigators, both lieutenants, saw Gerswin, and grinned. Both eyebrows went up, and she shook her head in mock-disapproval.
In spite of his glumness, Gerswin returned the smile.
“Friend?”
“Roommate. In name only.”
“You seem down.”
“Private thoughts?” asked Gerswin.
“All right. Provided it’s nothing illegal, or that I would be forced to enter on your record.”
“Nothing like that.” Gerswin shook his head. “No. I just don’t understand. From all the backgrounders, the comm freqs, everything I can pick up, the Newparran Christers control the ships, or most of them, and most of the govern
ment. But they’re the ones sending patrollers to blast the quarantine squadron. Then we sear off two moons to seal off the Istvennists, who haven’t threatened us. There must be a reason, but I can’t figure what.”
The major packed in another three mouthfuls before answering. While she was solid, she didn’t seem overweight, and he couldn’t believe how she kept that way with her food intake.
“Gerswin, what do you know about the Christers? Or the Istvennists? Or Newparra?”
“Not much beyond the background and the comparative religions course at the Academy. Christers are fundamentalist believers in a single god. Istvennists believe in their own god above all others, but within a context of total personal religious freedom.”
“Carry those trends to their logical extreme, and think about it. That would explain the way the Empire has had to act.” She drained half a glass of a purple punch in a single gulp. “Christers believe they are the only true believers of the only true God. They are fanatical achievers in anything and everything, and they usually end up in disproportionate numbers in government and business. Both their government and their businesses are honest, but cruelly so, and without much compassion. Less than twenty percent of Newparra is Christer, but they control the government. They passed a law to require religious prayers in all institutions of learning and another law to forbid voluntary euthanasia—in which the Istvennists deeply believe as a matter of personal choice. Then they blocked genetic improvements as unnatural, despite the fact that the majority of Istvennists come from a weak genetic background.
“I won’t go into a more detailed blow by blow, because I don’t know all the details, but the upshot was that the Istvennists called for elections to throw the Christers out of government, and the Christers refused to leave and seized the government and control of the major weapons systems of the small military. The Christers saw it coming and managed to smuggle in some high tech equipment before the Empire quarantined the system, and Christers from all over the galaxy are dying to get help to their brethren here.
The Christers can’t win over the long run without outside help because the numbers are against them. The Istvennists claim they should have outside aid to shorten the inevitable result and reduce the loss of life, and, besides, the Christers cheated on the quarantine.
“Imperial policy is simple. This is a local system matter and will stay that way. You have a revolt, and the locals have to settle it themselves. Our job is to make sure no one leaves the system, and no one enters, except on an Imperial warship. Period. When a government emerges that has total local control, we leave.”
“That why the captain sealed off the moons?”
“She didn’t have much choice, especially once the Christers blew the Saladin. Not enough ships to cover the system, and it would take too long to get back and forth between the outer and inner planets.”
“But what happens if they fight forever?”
“Has happened before,” mumbled the major as she finished another huge mouthful. “Will happen again. But local problems have to stay local, and local killings have to stay localized. If the people of a system can’t get along together, then why should we let them spread the disagreements?”
“What about refugees? People unjustly oppressed?”
“Two problems. First, half the so-called refugees are people who don’t get along in the system and don’t have the guts to change it. Either that or they lost out because they couldn’t change and they want to run out with their creds and try somewhere else. The other half are various bad apples.”
“What about real victims?”
The major snorted. “Victims? Real victims don’t have access to a jumpship or to the money to pay passage out-system. They get hurt no matter what happens. But if you force a system to deal with its problems, over time, in most cases, the average person gets hurt less. Not always true, but you don’t make policy on exceptions.”
Gerswin took a bite from the rubbery yellow fruit. It tasted better than ripe yucca, but not much. He chewed slowly.
The major stood and headed for the serving table and seconds. Gerswin studied the food before him, mostly still uneaten. She made it sound so simple, as if the hellburners were just another tool, as if the ten thousand people trapped under the molten rock and airless surface of Gyros and Janus had personally created the rebellion.
Had they?
He shook his head. So much he needed to learn. So much.
He tried a bite of the bland meat as the major plowed back to the table with another full tray.
XVI
M. C. Gerswin, Cadet 1/C
Section Beta Two
The Academy
Kystra, Alphane
This is printing off the main engineering screens, devilkid, because I was never much for the fancy cubes you talk and put your smiling face to.
Still black-jumps me to see you as a namesake of sorts. That’s why the initials, but congratulations. We all got the invitation, and you deserve it. You earned it. Can’t say I thought you’d make it, not because you lacked brains or talent, but it takes a lot of patience to put up with it all. You’ve surprised us more civilized types more than once, and probably will a few times more.
Hard to picture you as a fresh-scrubbed I.S.S. officer, but I’ll get used to that. Marso—she cubed me—can’t get over it either. She’s gone straight line, the exec on the Martel, scheduled for promotion to commander in the next circular.
Guess I ought to offer some advice. It’s free and worth that, but even an old engineer who’s a broken-down commander has something worth passing along. People—they’re important. I know it, but I could never put it into practice. That’s the single most important thing. Don’t you forget it.
Second thing is machines. You’ve studied the histories by now, how Old Earth went down despite its machines and how the colonies barely survived. That’s history. But we didn’t learn enough from it. I know, why should an old machine wrestler like me worry about machines? I do. Machines are tools. Every time you use a machine, you make a decision. When you build a new machine, you decide that machine and the resources it takes are more important than something else. That’s fine if you know what you want.
A machine can cut a tree and turn it into lumber. A machine can pull ore from an asteroid and turn it into hull plates. The machine didn’t make the asteroid, and it can’t grow like a tree. All Old Earth’s machinery didn’t save it from the collapse. The Federation learned something, and the Empire learned from the Federation. We’re careful about what machines we use, and more careful about where we build them and use them. We try to put them in deep space or on unusable planets or moons. We manufacture the dangerous stuff away from the planets we live on. But we manufacture, and we build ships.
We still deal with the Devil; we got better terms. That’s something to remember. What it means, I don’t pretend to know. Call it all the ramblings of a has-been engineer.
Anyway…congratulations again, and good luck, lieutenant!
MacGregor Corson
Commander, I.S.S.
COMM/ENG STAFF
Vladstok, MANQCH
XVII
The black and silver of the I.S.S. officer’s uniform merged with the long shadows and the lingering twilight of New Colora, even on the lower terrace of the Officers’ Club.
A single officer sat at a small table in the walled corner farthest from the circular stone staircase that led to the upper level, a table that seemed to draw the shadows around it like a blanket.
Gerswin leaned back in the padded plasteel chair and let his shoulders rest against the stone wall behind him, let his eyes range out over the sloping lawn beyond the waist-high sitting wall on the far side of the circular table for two.
Now that his flitter and shuttle training was over, all he had to do was wait for the Churchill, due in less than two standard weeks.
He began to whistle, creating another tune as the double notes whispered out onto the vacant terrace and d
rifted downhill toward the training fields out beyond the manicured greenery of the club grounds.
The club was nearly empty, as it had been for the last half month, when the previous training cycle had been completed. Since half of the flitter pilots were techs, and weren’t commissioned, and the latest officer class had yet to arrive, and the assault squadron normally based on New Colora, the Fifteenth, had just left for deployment with the Third Fleet, only a handful of officers were left to rattle around the club.
Within days, the Twelfth would be arriving for refresher training and regrouping. The next Academy class’s pilot trainees would soon follow.
For now the club was empty, except for the cadre, the high-ranking staff officers, and a few transients, and special assignees, like Gerswin.
Gerswin broke off his soft whistling as the waiter approached.
“Another, ser?” The orderly’s neutral tone nonetheless expressed concern about Gerswin’s less than formal position, but he did not lean forward.
“No. Thank you. Not now.”
He stared across the nonreflecting polished surface of the table, out over the stone sitting wall, and toward the low purple of the distant hills. In full daylight they were red-purple, not surprisingly, since most of the native growth had at least a trace of red in it. Only the mutated home grass had green or blue in it.
Gerswin laughed, a short bark, soft for all its harshness.
His home had been the original source of the blue green grass, but Old Earth looked more like New Colora than it did like the his-tapes showed or than New Augusta, supposedly the most Old Earthlike of the colonized planets that had become, first, the Federated Worlds, and then, the Empire.
“That will change. Right? You’re going to make it change. Right, Gerswin? Right, devilkid going home?”
The Forever Hero Page 7