“Coming?”
“Now…?”
“One and only chance.”
She looked around the port, from the civilian receiving area where amber lights alternated with white, to the flat western horizon where the golden greened sun was able to touch the flat smudged line that represented the endless squares of synde beans, to the muddied gray of the tarmac, and across the gray to the armed services compound a kay away where sirens blared and intermittent lights seared the late afternoon sky.
At last, her glance strayed to the groundcar and the slumped figure within.
Constanza Cerdezo swallowed, and squared her shoulders.
“Yes. I’ll go.”
“We’re not done yet, you know?”
“I’m scarcely surprised at that, Ser Corson, if that is indeed even your real name.”
Gerswin was half listening as he jumped the screen out over them and began to guide the former land agent/prisoner toward the Caroljoy.
VII
Gerswin tapped his fingers on the bottom edge of the control keys as his eyes darted from the main screen to the representational screen to the data screen in a continuing scan pattern.
“Private yacht Breakerton. Private yacht Breakerton. This is Byzania Control. Byzania Control. Please acknowledge. Please acknowledge.”
“Request instructions,” the AI asked.
“Do not acknowledge. Maintain screens.”
“Maintaining screens. Unidentified object departing orbit control. Probability exceeds point seven that object is orbital patrol with tachead missiles.”
“Query!” growled Gerswin. “Interrogative probability of orbit control destruction through field constriction drive swerve.”
“Inquiry imprecise.”
“If we force the patrol to fire at an angle that will cause the missile to skip off the atmosphere, can we use the mag band constrictions to control the missile course for a return to orbit control, with subsequent detonation?”
“Probability of damage to Caroljoy exceeds point four. Probability of damage to orbit control exceeds point nine.”
“No good. What kind of tachead does orbit control use?”
“EDI proximity is employed by more than point nine five of all orbit defense systems.”
“Can you maneuver us so that, when you blank out EDI traces, the tachead will seek out orbit control?”
“Not within current gee restriction envelope.”
“What is the minimum gee load requirement for a probability of orbit station destruction exceeding point nine with a probability of damage to the Caroljoy of less than point one?”
“Point eight probability of successful maneuver, defined as a point probability of destruction combined with a point one probability of damage to Caroljoy, can be obtained with an internal gee force loading peak of six point three for up to ten standard minutes.”
“Interrogative time before maneuver commencement.”
“Ten standard minutes, plus or minus two.”
Gerswin stood up and walked across the narrow space and into the tiny crew cabin that was normally his.
Constanza Cerdezo sat on the built-in bunk that doubled as an acceleration shell.
“Constanza?”
She turned, letting her feet hang over the side. “You have a problem?”
“I need an answer. What sort of physical condition are you in?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I need to know. Do you have any heart or lung problems? What’s your chron age? Estimated bio age?”
“A lady…,” She broke off. “You are serious. I know of no heart or lung problems. My age is fifty-seven years standard, and three years ago my biological age was set at fifty.”
“Query,” Gerswin asked the empty air. “Interrogative probability of severe biological damage, assuming standard profile, female, biological age fifty-three, slender frame.”
“Probability of severe bruising exceeds point eight. Probability of internal bleeding less than point one. Probabilities based on maximum maneuver time of less than ten standard minutes at peak gee load of six point three.”
Gerswin looked down at the white-haired and tanned woman, straight into her black eyes.
“The problem is simple. We have two choices. Cut and run. That’s one. Without finishing my mission. Or use some fancy shipwork to knock out orbit control.”
“You cannot come back and try again?”
“No. Excluding the costs, after what I did to the communications net, and to their air defenses on the way up, they will doubtless change things to prevent any recurrence. Next time, they just might destroy any untoward private ships who visit.”
“There are risks?”
“Risk to you. About a five percent chance you’ll be injured. Maybe more.”
“And if you succeed?”
“I will get what I came for and, in the process, probably upset the current government.”
“Would the Empire step in?”
“No. Against policy. Never have, and never will. Could quarantine the system until a local government regains total control.”
The silence stretched out.
“Time until arrival of orbit patrol is five minutes plus or minus one.” The AI’s clear tones echoed in the small cabin.
The silence dropped over the two, with only the background hissing of the ventilation system.
Constanza Cerdezo looked at Gerswin, then lowered her shoulders. “Do what you must. I can do no less.”
Gerswin lifted her off the bunk and set her standing on the deck. Next he ripped the sheet and quilt off the bunk and slammed them into a locker beneath. He touched the controls to reconfigure the bunk into an acceleration shell and, as quickly as he had made the changes, just as quickly lifted Constanza and placed her in the shell. Three quick movements, and the harnesses had her webbed firmly in place.
“Now. Once the acceleration hits, don’t even move your head. Leave it straight between the support rests here. Don’t lift it, and don’t try to shift your weight once the gee forces start.
“At times you may have no weight, or things may seem normal. Don’t believe it. Don’t get out of here for anything. Is that clear?”
“Time for orbit patrol arrival at estimated firing point is three plus or minus one.”
Gerswin dashed from the cabin to the control, scrambling into his own shell and adjusting the overrides for fingertip control.
“Use your six point three gee maneuver to get that tachead orbiting back at the control station.”
“Command imprecise.”
“Commence the maneuver you computed earlier, using a six point three gee envelope, to place the Caroljoy in a position where any tachead fired at the Caroljoy can be skip-deflected or otherwise placed in a position to allow it to home back on orbit control.”
“Instructions understood. Due to delays and the position of the orbital patroller, maneuver with same probability of success requires an envelope of seven point one gees.”
“Do it! Commence maneuver.”
A giant fist slammed Gerswin deep into his accel/decel shell.
He tightened his stomach muscles to fight off the blackness, to keep his eyes open enough to see the readouts projected in red light into the sudden darkness of the ship.
“Orbit patrol readjusting position, holding on tachead release.”
The pressure on Gerswin eased, back to five plus gees, he estimated. Because of the differentials in orbits, the strategy was to change positions rapidly enough while moving toward the patroller to force the patroller to fire quickly enough not to be able to compute the probabilities. Plus, the patroller did not know the configuration of Gerswin’s ship would allow him to blow all EDI traces.
Gerswin hoped it was enough.
The gee force continued to ease as the Caroljoy boosted her speed at a decreasing rate.
“Closing on patroller. Tachead released. Commencing evasive maneuvers.”
This time, the gee
force blow to Gerswin did roll him into the blackness, though only momentarily.
“Patroller has released second tachead.”
“Evade it, idiot,” grunted the pilot.
“Stet. Evading.”
Gerswin felt like he was being stretched across the couch. Supposedly, yachts, not even former scouts, were not capable of maneuvers like atmospheric craft, but Gerswin felt the Caroljoy was being handled more like a flitter than a deep-space ship.
For a moment, the Caroljoy went weightless, almost seeming to flip on her longitudinal axis.
The pilot’s stomach ventured toward his throat before being jammed back below his hips by the next gee blast.
When the acceleration eased, Gerswin rasped out another command before he was pressed farther into his shell.
“Put Byzania tactical comm on audible.”
“Stet. Frequency available.”
Another gee burst slammed more breath from Gerswin than he thought he had left, and just as suddenly, all weight left him.
“Full screens, and complete EDI blockage,” announced the AI.
The minutes dragged by.
“ByzOps. Hammer one. Returning. Target avoided both persuaders.”
“Stet, Hammer one. Understand persuaders avoided.”
“That’s affirmative.”
“Do you have visual on target?”
“That is negative.”
“Interrogative EDI.”
“Negative. Lost EDI after first release. No visual.”
“…don’t like this…,” Gerswin smiled wryly.
“Maneuvers completed,” stated the AI.
“Interrogative closures? Position status?”
“One quarter orbit distance plus two relative Byzania orbit control.”
“Aren’t we close to an orbit relay?”
“Relay inoperative.”
“I take it you rendered the relay inoperative.”
“That is correct.”
Gerswin shivered. That was one facet of releasing control to the AI that he did not relish. It was also the reason why neither the I.S.S. nor any commercial ships linked their AIs to the controls directly. No one yet had figured out a workable system that embodied the day-today ethical and human considerations required. Every direct “ethical” system ever attempted froze or took too much time to make decisions. The only workable systems were those designed without ethical parameters.
“Return to advisory status.”
“In advisory status.”
“Give me at least five minutes warning of any approaching object, anything at all.”
“Five minutes warning of all objects.”
“Stet.”
Gerswin scrambled out of his shell, wincing at the instant stiffness his muscles seemed to have acquired, and staggered into the small crew cabin.
A quick study indicated that Constanza was breathing, but her face and tan and white tunic were streaked with blood.
The white-haired woman’s chest rose and fell regularly, but the beginnings of heavy bruises were showing on her uncovered forearms.
He fumbled for the medstar cuffs, finally plugging them in and attaching them.
“Interrogative medical status of subject.”
“Subject unconscious. Probability less than point zero one of internal bleeding. Gross scan indicates no fractures.”
From what he could tell, the blood had come from a nosebleed. He wiped her slack face as clean as he could, but left her in the harness to wake up naturally.
No sense in taking chances.
Back before the controls, he also strapped himself in.
The audio crackled.
“ByzOps. Unidentified object approaching orbit station.”
“Hammer two, scramble. Launch and destroy.”
“Two scrambling. Interrogative clear to launch.”
“Cleared to launch. Cleared to launch.”
“Affirm. We’re cradle gone. Cradle gone and clearing.”
“Vector on incoming, plus one five at two zero seven. Plus one five at two zero seven.”
“Understand vector plus one five at two zero seven.”
“Stet. Vector and intercept. Intercept and destroy.”
“Intercept impossible. Intercept impossible.”
“Can you impact?”
“You want me to ram it?”
“That’s affirmative.”
“ByzOps, this is Hammer two. Clarify your last. Clarify your last.”
“Hammer two. If intercept not possible, use full thrust to impact and deflect incoming. Identified as persuader, class two.”
“That’s impossible, ByzOps. That’s—”
EEEEEEEEEEEE.
“Energy pulse indicates probable destruction of Byzania orbit control.”
“Does that mean all incoming traffic will have to communicate planetside directly?”
“That is correct.”
“And the planetary commnet is effectively out of commission,” mused Gerswin, “at least until they scrub the entire link.
“So it’s time to drop in on our friends, the savages, and see if they do have those tree houses of Hylerion’s.”
The Caroljoy began to drop from orbit toward the patches of forest reserve Gerswin had tentatively marked from his orbit and map scans.
VIII
The taller general looked over his shoulder. Three silver triangles glittered on his shoulder boards. Otherwise, his khaki uniform tunic was unadorned.
“Are you sure it’s secure?”
“Nothing is secure now. With the communications links down, we’re operating on emergency power, and we don’t have the energy for sonic screens. I doubt anyone else on Byzania has the energy for peepers.”
“Gwarara, summarize.”
Colonel Gwarara squared his shoulders and faced the three generals.
“Generals, the situation is as follows. First, Ser Corson, whoever he is, dropped a trap program into the comm-link system. It was an expanding and replicating program. Furthermore, it ordered a printout of the program itself from every hard-copy printer on Byzania that linked into the net before we shut down the power grid.”
“Shut down the power grid? The entire grid?” That was General Somozes, Chief for Atmospheric Defense, blond, stocky, clean-shaven, and square-chinned.
“Every minute that the system remained operational, another two hundred to one thousand vidterms were locked in. We estimate that it will take between twelve and thirty-six hours to scrub the entire system. That’s if we can use all available personnel. We will have to return power in sections. If we miss one link, it could repeat the original lock.”
“What did this devilish program do?” asked the other general, the short, thin one named Taliseo who headed the marines.
“General, it was a simple program. All it did was link together terminal after terminal, and leave the connections open. That did several things.” Gwarara paused, took a deep breath before continuing. He wanted to wipe his damp forehead. The bunker was getting warmer with each passing minute.
“First, no comm system actually stays on line all the time with all terminals. The actual link times are pulsed, compressed if you will. Corson removed the pulse feature and made all the contacts continuous. Enormous increase in the power requirements.”
“Is that what caused the blinking lights and the power fluctuations?”
“Before we shut the grid down? Yes.”
“What else?” asked the tallest general, Guiteres, the Chief of Staff.
“Second, as I mentioned earlier, this was a replicating program. Each connection transferred the program to the new terminal and left it displayed there, as well as printing it wherever possible.”
“You mean, there are hundreds copies of this…this monstrosity printed all over Byzania?”
“More like thousands, but the distribution would be very uneven. When we shut the grid down, the penetration of Conuno was close to ninety percent. Probably only about seventy percent fo
r Conduo, and less than twenty-five percent for Contrio. Most of the terminals don’t have power-fail memories. By killing the power we automatically destroyed close to ninety percent of the vidterm duplicates.”
“What about hard copy?” asked the Chief of Staff.
Colonel Gwarara frowned. “A rough estimate would be close to fifty percent of all hard-copy facilities with power-fail memories.”
“But every dwelling in Illyam has a hard-copy capability. That’s more than two million.”
“It would be less than that, General,” corrected the colonel. “The access was only to vidterms with on-line printers, not backup units.”
“The point is the same,” sighed General Guiteres. “There are more than enough copies available that anyone who wanted to repeat the program could.”
“No, ser. We can shield against this program being used again by anyone.”
Guiteres stared at the colonel. “You can shield against this particular program. Can you shield against another that has a different introduction? Or a different mechanism? Can you hide the basic concept?”
Gwarara looked at the hard and gray plastic of the bunker floor. “No, General.”
“Gentlemen,” Guiteres said softly, “the revolution is over. And we have lost.”
“What?”
“Are you insane?”
The Chief of Staff waited until the shock silenced the other two generals. The colonel said nothing.
“I do not propose admitting this publicly. Nor have we lost the immediate control of the situation. But the society we have today is doomed, no matter what we do. We have been able to maintain control because we held all communications, because the distribution of food, information, and transportation was monitored and regulated through the communications network.
“Ser Corson, whoever he really is, has handed those who oppose us both the format and concept of shutting down those communications channels. How many blockages can we take before the entire fabric unwinds? Three…five…a dozen?
“He has also destroyed orbit control, somehow. We do not have the resources to replace it, nor can we purchase a replacement if Byzania is quarantined, which seems likely. Further, without the satellite control links, our access to the relay monitors is limited to line of sight. That will give the savages more time to act and to avoid our patrols. To keep the communications relays operating will require maintenance from the shuttle port, which is expensive and energy intensive.”
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