Live Free or Die-ARC

by John Ringo

  "Why does everyone jump straight to megalomania when this project gets mentioned?" Tyler asked. "It's a perfectly reasonable application of physics and thermodynamics. And it will, let me add, be able to hold the gate against anything the Horvath can conceivably throw through. While protecting the VLA from attack. Well, the critical components. With a VDA set back at a light second, firing into a sapphire collimeter that then retransmits the power through the walls to the firing ports, the enemy won't have a good target. They can get the supplying VDA, VDAs mind you, there's going to be more than one, with missiles but by the time the missiles reach them the launchers are going to be gutted."

  "It's a shield and spear in one," Bryan said. "What about the missiles?"

  "The VDA can be split," Tyler said. "Targeting those missiles is going to be a bitch. But it's easier when they're first launched. Anything hostile that comes through the gate, we shred. Anything. They start launching missiles, we use a portion of the power to engage the missiles. Split the VDA beam into a dozen, a hundred, separate collimaters and we can take out most missile spreads. It will be a tactical decision whether to hit the ships or the missiles first. But generally, I'd think the missiles. The ships aren't going anywhere fast. And they're not going to take out Troy."

  "Anyway," Nathan said. "We need to melt the 'wings' to get the asteroid to form into a sphere before we do the full melt and balloon. The question is, strangely, is the VDA too powerful?"

  "Dialable," Dr. Foster said. "We can take the full power and spread it if that's necessary. Not a lot, mind you."

  "We don't want a lot," Nathan said. "How long to get it here?"

  "It's on the way," Bryan said. "About two days."

  "I hate waiting," Tyler said with a sigh.

  "Get used to it," Bryan and Nathan chorused.

  "Think we need to spread the beam," Tyler said.

  The petawatt and a half of power pumping through the VDA was gouging a huge line through the exterior of the asteroid and leaving behind a trail of debris. Mostly gaseous iron and nickel with an admixture of other, even more valuable, metals.

  "Yeah," Nathan said, happily. "I guess."

  The VDA controls were so refined he was controlling it by drawing a stylus across the image of the asteroid on a touch screen.

  "Hey, look," he said. "I wrote my name!"

  "Spread the beam, Nathan," Tyler said.

  Spreading the beam stopped spalling. But . . .

  "I'm just not believing this," Nathan said. "It's melting this thing like . . ."

  "A thousand cubic meters is raised to melting temperature every ninety minutes," Bryan said, looking up from his calculations. "Even with the conduction of nickel iron it is melting effectively. If you could just park a ship with this much firepower and beam it at Troy, you could kill it. Well, everyone in it."

  "Yeah," Tyler said. "Except you'd have to bring your own sun with you. And in the meantime, Troy would be pumping this out at the ship. About the only thing that could damage Troy is . . . this. So we'd better be careful securing it. Really careful. Among other things, I don't want the Horvath or anyone else who might enter the system hacking it and pointing it at earth."

  "And you should be able to heat the whole thing in . . . about three months," Dr. Foster said.

  "That I'll wait for," Tyler said, grinning.

  "Except it's overheating," Nathan said, stopping the beam. "Moving to secondary array to maintain the heat. The VDA is super-cool, though."

  "Cryogenic," Dr. Foster said with a satisfied tone. "Cools off fast, too. Should be ready to go again in about five minutes. And when you're doing the full melt you can use VSA and BDA to do most of it. When you've gotten done with the wings on the asteroid, I'd like to take the VDA apart and see how it held up."

  "Fine," Nathan said. "Yeah, temp is nominal again already. You guys go have fun. I've got an asteroid to melt."

  "Fun, yeah," Dr. Foster said, grumpily. "Now I've got to figure out how to mass produce these things."

  "Be glad it's a nice simple engineering project," Tyler said. "I've got to meet with Glatun bankers."

  Four

  "I thought this was a done deal," Tyler said, crossing his arms.

  "We thought the investment was valid as well, Mr. Vernon," Suw Qalab said then flicked his nose. The Vice President for Investment Strategies of Onderil's Glalkod region was clearly as annoyed by this 'little setback' as Tyler. "But the . . . overall strategic situation has, unfortunately, changed."

  "Banking strategic or military strategic?" Tyler said. "We're not even talking about the Terran solar system? And we've got that pretty much secured. The Horvath would have to get through the Terran system to get to Wolf."

  "Both the banking strategic and political strategic," Qalab said. "And less in relation to Terra and the Horvath, which are, after all, minor issues to the Glatun, than core issues. Have you been reviewing the news lately?"

  Tyler closed his eyes and accessed his plants searching for data on the Glatun strategic situation. He hadn't really looked at it since the first time he'd examined the Glatun. When he found what Qalab was hinting at he nearly fainted.

  The previous month, the Glatun Council of Benefactors, the oligarchy that made most of the major decisions for the Glatun government, had agreed to cede to the Rangora strategic control over fifteen uninhabited solar systems. Most of them were systems in the border zone between Glatun occupied systems and the Rangora. The systems had been disputed by the Rangora for nearly sixty years. They felt that since they still had an expanding population, they just needed the room. The Glatun, for very good strategic reasons, wanted the systems to act as a neutral buffer.

  Something had changed the mind of the Council lately. Nearly simultaneously there had been less noticeable news reports. The Council had raised taxes, increased fleet production, which had been nearly moribund for ten years, and started a recruiting drive for the Glatun Fleet. Digging into that, Tyler was unsurprised to find that it was not going well.

  "The Rangora," Tyler said.

  "The Rangora," Qalab said. "Much of our investment money has dried up either due to the new taxes or because it is being invested in military oriented programs."

  "Damn," Tyler said. "I have no use for war. I hate the losses involved, of course. But they really get in the way of building infrastructure. They're waste. Why the hell can't sophonts be sensible about this stuff?"

  "You are . . ." Qalab paused. "I'm sorry. You are fairly well known for a human among the Glatun. The maple syrup, of course, but most especially as a warrior. 'Give me liberty or give me death.' The battle in the Star Fury." He kicked his head up and down and wrinkled his nose in puzzlement.

  "I said I don't have a use for war," Tyler said. "Never said I don't know how to do it. There's a time to fight and a time to not. Getting into a war over border systems? The Rangora aren't going to use those systems. There are no habitable planets, the gas giants are all in the cold belt and they have a low relative level of helium. This is a power grab, pure and simple. Those piss me off. And . . ." He paused, wondering how much he should say.

  "The Rangora Fleet outnumbers the Glatun by nearly six to one," Qalab said, filling in for him. "They are, individually, inferior. But many. And it takes time to build ships. I believe the Council is buying time."

  "You think they're going to attack the Glatun Federation," Tyler said, leaning back.

  "In time," Qalab said. "Yes. That is the general consensus among . . . people who pay attention to such things. I am one such. I have to be. It affects . . . risk."

  "Better believe it," Tyler said with a snort. "You can buy all the time you want but you're not going to be able to buy sailors. You guys have almost erased your warrior ethic."

  "That was a strategic calculation on the part of the Council," Qalab said, ruffling his back fur in a shrug. "I am not in a position to say if they were correct or not. It has assured a long period of relative stability within the Federation."

  "An
d now it's going to bite you in the ass," Tyler said. "Okay, under the circumstances, I can understand if you guys don't want to pony up for this investment. I'm not sure where that leaves me, but I've just seen there are bigger issues to think about."

  "Indeed," Qalab said. "I hope that we can do business in the future. Our previous arrangements have been most lucrative."

  "Yeah," Tyler said. "And it looks as if I'm going to be selling a lot of metal to you guys. I just hope you're good for it. What a universe."

  Tyler stood outside the Onderil offices and just thought for a moment as the beautiful Glatun of Glalkod station swirled around him.

  On earth, a meeting involving the sort of sums he was discussing with Onderil would have had thirty people in it. Assistants, note-takers, lawyers. More lawyers.

  The Glatun, between the power of implants and the power of their AIs, had paired away most of the excess. Tyler had hired time with a Hurin legal AI to review the terms of the contract. Onderil, of course, had their own. When a point came up the two battling AIs couldn't resolve, he talked it out with Qalab and then the AIs went back to battling over the exact verbiage. No need for note takers. No need for assistants.

  On Earth there was another layer related to such entourages that was less about need than face. Having a big entourage was a sign of prestige.

  The Glatun bankers, though, acted like Terrestrial old money. They eschewed any unnecessary sign of wealth. The banks were neat, tidy, orderly, rich looking. But if there was no need for hangers-on there weren't any.

  It was almost like a reversion to the customs on earth when banking was in its infancy. You talked face to face to avoid electronic tinkering, you made an agreement and you walked away. It was . . . refreshing.

  If it had only worked.

  Tyler wondered how many of the, clearly wealthy, Glatun laughing and chatting along the main station boulevard were paying any attention to the cleft stick they were in. Was this what it was like in Paris in the 1930s? Rome in the 7th Century? Most of the beautiful people coasted on comfortable nest eggs, inherited wealth managed by the few Glatun left with even ambition like Qalab. And their main ambition was to make another megacredit, not take the chance of dying in the vacuum of space.

  Tyler had to wonder, again, if he'd hitched himself to a falling star. He bought ships from the Rangora but that didn't mean he trusted them not to knock off a minor planet if they had the chance. And they were tight with the Horvath. The closest thing Earth had to a strategic partner on the galactic scene was Glatun.

  They were screwed. Again.

  "Mr. Vernon," an older Glatun said, nodding in a gesture that was oddly Terrestrial. Well but not flashily dressed, unlike most of the 'beautiful people.' A short-nose. Tyler had learned to tell the difference. The 'long nose' Glatun or 'Korkoo', were generally considered to be more cultured. If for no other reason than some historical quirks of location and hard-nosed trading on the part of the original race had tended to concentrate wealth in the hands of the Korkoo. Most of the Council of Benefactors were Korkoo. The Glod, short-noses, were thought of as more boorish. Glatun crackers. They made up the vast majority of the underclass but also of the military, what there was of it.

  This guy was dressed like a fairly substantial Korkoo, the harness didn't come off the rack, but he was a Glod. Odd.

  "What a surprise to find you standing here."

  "Sorry," Tyler said, stepping to the side. "Am I blocking the door?"

  "Not at all," the Glatun said. "Oh, I am being remiss. I am Niazgol Gorku."

  "Gorku Corporation," Tyler said, nodding. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance." Tyler refused to act surprised. And there was no way this was coincidence. That was not how Niazgol Gorku worked.

  Most of Tyler's early business had been with Gorku and he still did a lot of business with them. He'd taken the time to research the history and leadership of all the corporations he dealt with. Gorku had always been interesting. It had been a fairly moribund firm run by a conservative set of the traditional Korkoo businessmen.

  Niazgol Gorku had more or less rocketed up the ranks by sheer force of ability. Started as a crewman on one of the company's freighters. Worked his way to captain in two years then operations manager of the region in another two. Ten years later, he was the CEO. Five years later he was the majority shareholder and the Chairman of the Board. Which was when he changed the name of the company.

  He'd continued to innovate when most other corporations were willing to coast. He had two of the three remaining exploration ships despite the fact that, with the exception of earth, they hadn't found a decent trading partner in centuries.

  Tyler was well aware he was dealing with someone with decades more experience and probably twice the sheer brain-watts. So he tried very hard not to check his wallet.

  "And, no, this is not coincidence," Gorku said, reading his mind. "I am interested in your Wolf 359 project. I was wondering if you'd care to discuss it over lunch."

  "Interested enough to invest?" Tyler asked.

  "Yes."

  "I'll buy."

  "I rarely eat out," Gorku said. "Perhaps on my ship?"

  "How is the quail?" Gorku asked.

  "You either have a really amazing robochef," Tyler said, "or a five star human chef stowed away somewhere. And great ingredients."

  "I have a really amazing robochef," Gorku said, wheezing a chuckle. "Which was repeatedly reprogrammed by a five star human chef until it could accurately reproduce his most complex recipes. He took it as a challenge and nearly committed suicide when even he could not tell the difference in a blind taste test."

  "Can I hire him?" Tyler asked, taking another bite of quail.

  "Alas, no," Gorku said. "He lived in Paris."

  "Ah," Tyler said. "We . . . lost a lot of good people."

  "That you did," Gorku said. "Too many good people. And we are about to lose so many more your losses will be, pardon me, insignificant."

  "Big surprise you're paying attention to the strategic situation," Tyler said, taking a sip of wine. A small sip.

  "I was surprised you had not been," Gorku said.

  "I've been a little busy," Tyler replied. "Surely the Rangora aren't going to lay waste to your worlds."

  "They won't have to kill us by the billions," Gorku replied. "Sufficient disruption and that many will die from famine. Space stations don't run on their own. A stray missile will gut a city and kill a few million. One hits a space station and everyone will die."

  "Depends on the space station," Tyler said.

  "You speak of Troy."

  "I'm not surprised you know about that, either," Tyler said.

  "I'm looking at it and going 'Why didn't I think of that?'"

  "I didn't think of it," Tyler said. "I read about it as a kid and never quite got over the wonder."

  "Your science fiction," Gorku said. "Have you considered, carefully, the progression of Glatun history?"

  "You weren't nearly as advanced as humans at first contact," Tyler said. "And I was unable to find any reference to space travel or even the concept until first contact. Which I found a bit odd. Cyrano de Bergerac wrote SF for God's sake. I don't get there being no Glatun interest in space."

  "Glatun is in a solar system with very little in the way of interesting objects," Gorku said. "No bright gas giants such as your Jupiter. No dawn star like your Venus. And no moon."

  "Eh," Tyler said. "Okay, I'll take that as a good reason."

  "Thus we had no novel concepts to engage upon," Gorku said. "And no enemies, thus no need for novelty. We have used basic Ormatur technologies, with very little advancement, ever since. Successfully, mind you. The Glatun had, once, their Hobbesians among us. But by the time we went to space, we were an almost entirely Smithian group."

  "Hobbesian," Tyler said. "Power and wealth through conquest. Smithian?"

  "The Wealth of Nations?" Gorku said. "Adam Smith?"

  "I've never heard it referred to that way," Tyler said.


  "Carthage versus Rome to use an earthly metaphor," Gorku said. "We actually call it Chihahigh Economics. Especially the, oh, more repressive aspects of Smithian Economics. Use minor trading partners and colonies as sources of raw materials but ensure that all major manufacturing is closely held within the Federation and especially certain classes within the Federation."

  "Wondered how much of that was going on," Tyler said.

  "Quite a bit," Gorku said. "But I've tried very hard to fight it in the case of Earth."

  "Why?" Tyler asked, his brow furrowing. "I'm sorry, I've studied you. You're not generally considered altruistic. Quite the opposite."