The War Machine: Crisis of Empire III

by David Drake

  Dammit, the circumstances weren’t parallel. He knew that, in his gut. Think. What made the cases different? Maybe the reason would help him find a solution.

  It came to him. He had never thought of himself as cooperating with the destruction of the planet, even passively. He would put up a fight before he let the planet die, would sacrifice everything to prevent it from happening. Honor would permit nothing less.

  And honor would not permit him to abandon the Bear. That was it. He could and should leave the Lennox or Macduff to protect the miners. But he would need every scrap of fighting power he could lay hands on for the final assault on the command asteroid. Besides, if he drew one of the large ships in toward the mining ship, close enough so it could provide some sort of protection, the freighters would know why.

  And the freighters were closing in. Some of them were now near enough that the Banquo’s G-wave sensors could spot the parasites aboard. It wasn’t as if that was a surprise, but it did remind Spencer time was passing.

  Then what could he do? Any act to rescue the Bear’s crew would require either powering up the Bear somehow, or else sending in one of the destroyers to take Destin’s people off. And any of those acts would alert the freighter fleet to the fact that the Bear had been found. For that matter, launching his attack fleet toward the command asteroid would tell them the same thing. That would certainly bring the freighter’s wrath down on the unarmed Dancing Bear. Any effort to save the crew, or use the information they had gained, would almost certainly doom the men and women aboard the mining ship.

  Wait a second. That was only true if the Bear had value to the enemy. In terms of pure logic, the mining ship was only important to the enemy while she kept silent. It was vital to the helmet creatures that she maintain that silence, and not reveal the location of the command asteroid. Once Spencer knew that locale, and made it clear by his actions that he knew, then the Bear lost all importance to the enemy.

  She would be a null, a zero, worth no effort at all. The Dancing Bear had denial value, negative value, and that only so long as the knowledge aboard her was kept secret. The only logical time for the enemy to move against her was during a period when she had been spotted, but her knowledge was still hidden. It wouldn’t do the parasites any good to attack her now. The Fleance had managed to sneak up past the freighters.

  It was a tempting thought, but a human commander would never figure a tactical situation in absolutes that way. He would make assurance double sure, blast the Bear down to rubble even after her secrets were revealed, on the off chance that she still might provide some further advantage, however tiny, to the opposition.

  That was how a ruthless human commander would play it. The parasites were ruthless, certainly. But they weren’t human.

  Dostchem. She and Suss had studied the parasites as carefully as anyone.

  He turned and looked across the bridge to where Suss was sitting. “Suss—find Dostchem. I have a job for both of you. Explain the tactical situation to her. Then, I want both of you to consider one question, independent of each other. Try and think like the helmet ensemble running that freighter fleet. Question: What do you do if the entire Pact fleet now suddenly changes course and moves straight for your command asteroid? Get me your answers, and get them fast. We don’t have much time. Go.

  “Navigation: calculate a minimum time trajectory toward the orbit coordinates provided by Captain Destin. We’re headed in, and soon.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Breakout

  “They will give chase to your fleet and attack if given the opportunity,” Dostchem said, her voice confident and assertive. “Nothing else would make sense. I cannot even think of any other option for them.”

  Suss shot a sidelong glance at the Capuchin and shrugged. “I think she’s right. Objectively, yes, nothing else makes sense for them. But a human commander would toss a few torpedoes into the Dancing Bear just on general principles. Just to be sure.”

  Dostchem shook her head no vigorously, copying the human gesture to perfection. “We are not battling a human opponent, or one that even remotely resembles your species or mine. Your kind and mine both evolved out of a nature where it was kill or be killed—or at least, find food and avoid enemies or die,” she amended, remembering that humans hadn’t been born of pure hunters. Well, she was starting to think that a scavenging lifestyle could evolve some fairly doughty warriors. These ground apes were ready and willing to fight an enemy that would have sent any sane Capuchin scampering for the hills.

  “Whatever niches our ancestors filled, our advantage was in intelligence. Our survival was possible only because we outthought our opponents—opponents that were never thinking, rational creatures. A wilevore or a mountain lion was perfectly capable of illogical moves, a leap to one side or a suicidal attack when cornered, for example, or marauding after more game when they have already killed.

  “Both humans and Capuchins have it burned into their souls that the enemy might be irrational, unthinking. But not this thing. This helmet, creature, machine, whatever it is—all it knows is thinking creatures. Its skills and talents would be all but useless unless a sapient creature was there first to create technology for it to dominate. Frankly, I doubt if it has ever come up against an enemy as crazy as humans are.

  “Its moves have been and will be brutal, logical, precise, direct, focused and violent. It will not chase after the Bear to cover its tracks, on the off chance that it might have missed some unknown thing we could use. Its mind simply does not work that way.”

  Spencer nodded, his face expressionless. “Suss?”

  Suss gestured with her hands, turning her empty palms upward. “It makes sense. But dammit, I am human—and I can’t imagine the mountain lion leaving my camp unharmed just because wrecking it won’t help the lion. If you’re thinking of leaving the Bear undefended, it’s a helluva chance to take.”

  “So is attacking that asteroid with diminished forces,” Spencer replied. “If we lose for want of firepower, by the time the next starship comes through, the parasites could control this whole system. They’ll be able to grab a ship more easily—especially if it’s a civilian ship. Then those things will get loose in the Pact.”

  Spencer hesitated. He was no Navy man. He wasn’t even a line officer, according to the strictest view. His expertise was in intelligence, not in outguessing million-year-old robots in a space battle. He had no training for this—but more than enough doubts.

  But none of that mattered. “What it comes down to is that I have to decide—and time is moving.” Risk. Risk assessment. That was something he understood. Think of it in those terms, then. There was risk involved in leaving the Bear to her fate—but not certain disaster. If he decided the Bear must fend for herself, he would be exposing her to danger, yes—but that was worlds of difference away from leaving her to be destroyed. That risk could be balanced a gain, against other risks.

  Spencer could not function in absolutes, any more than Suss could. He was not a machine. He had to leave the mining ship with something. He could leave Fleance. Spencer checked the tactical plot board. The rest of the fleet was some distance from the mining ship anyway. It would take time to recover all the other auxiliary craft—but far more time to wait for the Fleance to fly back from the Bear’s location. He ran the problem. A crash recovery of all the other aux craft, with both mothercraft and aux vehicles maneuvering at high acceleration to reduce delay—one hour ten minutes. The time required to recover the Fleance, with the Flea doing all the running, at low acceleration to avoid detection—eighteen hours. Thank God Wellingham had had the presence of mind to leave the mining ship in the dark, and its resident parasite undisturbed. All hell would have broken loose otherwise.

  The fleet could move nearly seventeen hours sooner if Spencer left the Fleance behind. The enemy was no doubt preparing to receive them at the command asteroid already, and Spencer didn’t want to allow them the chance to complete those preparations. It would be nice to catch t
hem with their pants down. Rapid arrival at target might be more vital than one gig’s limited firepower.

  That settled it. Fleance could stay docked where she was. The gig could serve as some sort of defense for the mining ship, and as some sort of sop to Spencer’s conscience.

  Of course, if the freighters decided to attack in force, the one little gig would prove equally useless in both roles. Symbolic defenses were no good against berserking robots.

  “Very well,” Spencer said, feeling that every eye on the bridge was watching him. “The Dancing Bear is to remain where she is, powered down, until we have left the vicinity. The Fleance will remain with her, to provide whatever technical, medical, and military help she can. Once we are clear of the search volume, Chief Wellingham may proceed to capture the parasite aboard and power up the Bear at whatever time and by whatever means he sees fit. All other aux craft return to the closest possible destroyer. Don’t let the pilots worry about getting to their home craft—just get them to whichever ship can carry them. We boost for the command asteroid at a minimum-time orbit in one hour.”

  Spencer was careful to name a launch time just outside the realm of possibility. Any shorter, and they’d know it was impossible. Any longer, and they might slack off. “Relay those orders and get moving.”

  ###

  Spencer’s crew managed to do the impossible. Fifty-eight minutes after he issued his orders, the last auxiliary vehicle was secured, the last station reported itself ready at accelerations stations, and the destroyers were ready for boost. With a feeling of pride in his crews, Spencer ordered all ships’ helms to initiate minimum-duration transit burns.

  The Banquo’s massive engines bellowed into life, and slapped Spencer down into his command couch with a full six gravities of boost. He struggled to turn his eyes toward the tactical plot, straining to see what the surrounding force of freighters would do in response to the Pact move. There were eighteen of them, still in a rough spherical envelopment of the Pact ships. Now the three destroyers were clearly about to rocket their way straight through the surface of that sphere, dashing past the freighters lumbering in toward the sphere’s center. The converted cargo vessels would not be able to turn or maneuver in time.

  Three. There were three freighters that stood roughly athwart their path. Those were the only immediate threats. If any or all of them were quick enough off the mark to shift course or fire missiles at the destroyers there might be trouble. Spencer didn’t need to tell any of that to Tallen Deyi’s bridge crew. They were watching the threatening ships closely. Any menacing movement and—

  “Missiles away!” the tracking officer shouted.

  Damn! Spencer felt the sweat spring out of his forehead and race down into the back of his neck under the urging of six-Gs acceleration. It was a battle even to speak at this boost. This battle would have to be fought by automatic systems and whatever AI devices that could respond usefully to a voice command.

  “Let’s see a threat projection,” Spencer managed to grunt out before the acceleration forced the air out of his body. He fought to refill his lungs as the tactics screen traced the missile plots.

  At these velocities, dealing with an unknown class of missile, launched by an enemy whose psychology was uncertain, the track projections were mere guesses.

  And they were not pleasant guesses.

  Eight missile launches were tracked definitely, with two more somewhat ghostly track lines indicating possible launches. Six of the ten traces showed likely intercepts with Pact ships. “Evasive boost,” Deyi ordered. “Random shifts. Fire countermissiles at will—but don’t waste ’em. And release two decoy birds.”

  Incredibly, Deyi’s voice sounded calm and normal, just the way it did during a training exercise. The danger and the crushing acceleration didn’t seem to faze him. “Keep cool, and don’t fire until you see a real threat.”

  Spencer wished that he could sound so collected.

  The Banquo bucked and swerved as the engines shifted their power and canted from side to side, turning then-smooth flight-tracks into a jagged, stuttering confusion on the tactical board. There was a trio of heavy booms from amidship somewhere as the countermissiles leapt away, and a pair of more subdued whumps as the decoys were dropped. The decoys, though only a few meters from end to end, were supposed to resemble the real Banquo in an enemy missile’s tracking system. Both of the decks immediately began firing their engines and began jinking up and down, aping the Banquo’s own motion.

  ###

  Spencer glanced at the chronometer, stunned to see only a few seconds had passed. The speed of time was anything but constant in a space battle; it seemed to shift capriciously from the infinitely slow to the heart stoppingly fast, and then back again. Now the seconds were passing with the sluggish unwillingness of molasses on a cold morning. It was as if each second had expanded, swelling large to allow more things to happen in every moment.

  Space battles seemed to be composed of seconds and days in equal parts. As in the current engagement, it might take days—or even weeks or months—of probing, maneuvering, feinting and scheming before the two forces came in contact with each other. The actual fighting in the battle might take less than half-a-minute. The typical ship-to-ship engagement was over almost before it began, a rush of blazing engines and glittering energies.

  The closing velocities were so great that the two sides were out of effective range again even as the first wave of weapons found their marks. Then the ships would wheel about for more maneuvering, more feinting and scheming, as one side, or both, chased its enemies down toward another few flashing seconds of terror.

  But those few seconds could last forever.

  The incoming missiles and countermissiles crawled toward each other. The decoys scuttled slowly across the screen, back-blasting, sputtering out phony radio traffic and tracking beams. The destroyers themselves moved with a glacial ponderousness, flying with an elephantine grace that would not concern itself with anything so undignified as incoming missiles.

  “Stand by to divert power to shields,” Deyi ordered. All the destroyers were equipped with powerful electromagnetic shielding that would disrupt or divert any attacking missile it did not simply rip apart. But the shields sucked power, stealing it from the engines.

  Worse, they blinded any ship that used them at full power, cutting it off from all outside sensor data—and the shields made it very clear which were the decoys and which were the real ships. No decoy ever made could fire up a convincing shield. Furthermore, it was impossible to fire the ship’s engines through the shields on a Chieftain class destroyer.

  Well, not quite impossible. It could be done, if you didn’t mind the ship turning into a ball of melted slag.

  Deyi knew all that, and like any good naval commander, he hated the shields. Unlike most, he knew when and how to use them. “Weapons Officer, activate shields at your discretion—but I don’t want to see them on for more than ten seconds. Throttle down for power diversion and activate defenses only at need.”

  A countermissile found its target and lit up the sky for a brief moment, destroying itself along with its attacker. The tactical display made two other incoming attackers vanish. Apparently, the tactics officer had decided the birds were too far off to pose a threat. Or maybe the computers had goofed in the first place while interpreting the sensor data—easy to do when the projection was based on nothing more than a brief wink of light tracked from thousands of klicks away and a guess at probabilities.

  Unless of course the tactics officer had just guessed wrong about which traces were false. In which case she had also just made ghosts of everyone on board the Banquo.

  Spencer blinked, struggling to see clearly through the tunnel vision caused by massive acceleration. There was one more incoming missile left, and this one was no ghost in the simulation—it was real, being tracked by the Banquo’s own radar and optical systems.

  “Weapons—” Tallen said warningly, some note of concern appearing in hi
s voice for the first time.

  “We’re on it, Sir. Examining threat po-tent-ial. I show high confidence of direct impact with Banquo,” the young lieutenant said, splendidly unaware of the incongruities in her military terminology. She spoke in a strange sing-song chant, giving the perfect rote responses pounded into her during training. It kept her voice calm, detached, clear and understandable.

  Perhaps the rhythmic sound of her voice had a calming effect on her. Anything that works, Spencer thought. If this young looie freaked out and got it wrong, they were all dead. “I show no countermissile capable of intercept. We are too close for a new missile launch. Propulsion, stand by for fusion power transfer to shield generator. Commence kay-rash throttle-down now.”

  The unbearable weight of six-G boost snapped off, as if someone had thrown a switch—and that was close enough. A crash throttle-down did violence to the whole fabric of the ship, not just the engines. It was a dangerous maneuver. On the other hand, it would be straight-ahead suicide to fire the engines while they and the rest of the ship were bottled up by the shields . . .

  “Full power to spherical shield generator,” the phlegmatic weapons officer announced. Spencer looked up at the tactical plot in time to see the universe vanish.

  The tactical computer, denied all its realtime sensors, scrambled to produce a plot based on last positions and velocities. The solid tracer lines blurred and faded into expanding color cones that faded toward the edges. The brighter the color, the higher the probability for that trajectory—and there was a blood-red sword of color pointed straight at the dot that represented the Banquo.