“Forty-two ships,” came Carlos’ aside. His special-ops team had made direct contact not quite two hours earlier over UPIA spacesuit radios. “What's Mashkith up to?"
Carlos had asked the right question. “Why should we trust you, Foremost?"
“You have no reason—yet.” His avatar made a circular head motion. “But without your trust we will all die. You have sensors on all decks. Have your translator report what I am about to announce."
An intercom boomed all around, in the shrill, warbling voice of a Snake. “It's Mashkith,” Joe said. “That's confirmed by voiceprint. The same announcement is being made on all decks."
“What's he saying?” Carlos asked.
“The Foremost is surrendering—but to K'Choi Gwu ka."
* * * *
Renown grazed a docked scoopship before drifting out of the landing bay. Through the pilot's viewport, Victorious loomed like a small world. No, it is a small world, Mashkith thought, and my whole clan is on it. Only I can save them.
But would the clan heed his words?
“Arblen Ems: Our deeds epic, our accomplishments larger than life, larger than the vastness of interstellar space. Sadly, courage and devotion not guarantors of success. The shortcoming all my own.” Who but himself could he blame for his misplaced trust in Lothwer, for instilling in Lothwer great tactical skill without the dedication to the clan to guide it?
They had come so close. Had Valorous not been detected after Himalia, or had Lothwer kept faith only a little longer, the clan would have escaped. Even now, but for Lothwer's despair, they would all have lived with all the glory anyone could want. In the sense that thriving despite the hostility of others can be revenge, then revenge, too, would have been theirs.
At the last, the only lesson Lothwer had learned was to have a back-up plan. He had brought explosives, not relied upon activating the lifeboat's interstellar drive to trigger catastrophe.
The humans are right not to trust me, Mashkith thought. They are right not to trust any Hunter—but unless he could inculcate trust now, all would die. “Clan mates, your bravery and sacrifice commendable. The time now for wisdom. Resources of this vast solar system too much for the most valiant Hunters. Attack imminent of great human fleet. Requirement now of your bravery and wisdom: recognition of harsh realities."
It was the most critical speech of his life, yet only the merest fraction of his attention could be allotted to delivering it. A few attitude jets still worked, and sporadically a little of the flight automation. As Mashkith spoke, he struggled to reorient the ship. After each gentle nudge of his jets, the unmoored lifeboat within bumped yet again against some part of the hold. For the clan to survive, he must quickly move Renown far away. If one of the onrushing human ships merely reduced its deceleration, it would be quickly upon him. And were it to attack....
“Clan survival imperative above all else. The consequence: this directive from me as Foremost of Arblen Ems. Immediate submission of all Hunters to the original Foremost of Victorious: K'Choi Gwu ka. Handover of all weapons to the ka and her crew."
As Renown's battered nose finally swung around to point outward from the Sun, away from the pursuing fleet, he began gently to accelerate. The lifeboat, with a soft crunch, came to rest against the stern of the tank. Its cockpit was ablaze with yellow. How long did he have?
“Suicidal despair already by some. Result: the attempted destruction of all. The Foremost's final duty: removal of this deadly peril from Victorious."
He broke the connection to the ship's intercom, but remained linked to corridor surveillance sensors. Throughout the starship, confusion reigned. Clanmates argued in groups small and large. Surrender without a fight was too foreign a concept to be easily accepted—and there was simply no time. “Dr. Walsh: ample reason yet for your trust?"
“In the presence of antimatter, trust is a fleeting commodity."
Whatever that meant, it did not sound immediately threatening. “Withdrawal of this ship without interruption?"
How distant the time seemed when this human was the biggest obstacle to the clan's success. Now the clan's very survival depended upon Arthur Walsh's bold thinking. A near-constant need for course corrections occupied Mashkith as the humans consulted. Its battered hull vibrating madly, Renown slowly accelerated and pulled ahead of the starship.
“The fleet will leave your warship alone,” Walsh answered, “for only as long as its course points away from them.” There was a long silence. “Foremost, I wish you luck."
I wish us all luck, thought Mashkith. “Acknowledgement."
* * * *
CHAPTER 43
The rapid descent of the central-core elevator in micro-gravity conditions had the effect of nudging its occupants upward. The core elevator was potentially compromised and remained off-limits—which meant that by using it, two insubordinate humans might reach the engine room before anyone could intervene. At one level, Eva wondered whether they were already being observed by ubiquitous UPIA sensors. At a second level, she worried that the trembling of her hands on a handrail was visible even through pressure-suit gloves. Yet another part of her wanted to laugh at the irrelevance of both doubts.
If she started laughing, could she stop?
“Deck ninety-two: books, toys, and women's shoes.” A nervous cough preceded Art's feeble jest. “Deck ninety-three: umbrellas and hats."
Mashkith's plea for surrender was much remarked upon but little observed. The Snakes still controlled the stern and its all-important engine room. The UP rescue fleet had matched course and speed; at Eva's impassioned pleading they were for now maintaining a goodly separation. Was it distant enough?
“Deck ninety-six.” Either way, the end of the line. “Engine room and dungeon. Pashwah-qith, it's show time. Now that we're safely down here, link in the ka, the Foremost, and Carlos. For now, they can only listen."
Armed Snakes awaited as the elevator doors opened. She recognized none of them. “Take us to your senior officer.” She would have felt more comfortable using the mission's translator, but to whom might Joe have confided? There was no time to answer questions.
Watchful guards escorted them into a great chamber dominated by vast engines. Outwardly, the fusion reactor and drive differed little from human norms. Other great machines were entirely alien. Antimatter containment, annihilation chamber, interstellar drive—she had once begged to see this room, and now she dared not waste time on even a long look.
“Who is the senior officer here?” Art demanded. “We have come in person, have put ourselves into your power, to emphasize the urgency and importance of our business."
A familiar figure pushed forward, although the hesitancy on Keffah's face was new. It was a tiny bit of good news: They were dealing with an engineer, someone who could grasp the problem. “That is the question, isn't it,” Pashwah-qith translated. “In the engine room, I am senior officer. If Mashkith has left us, and if Lothwer is dead, perhaps I lead for the clan. Or perhaps the herd rules now.” She shook off the moment of uncertainty. “None of that brought you. What is the urgent matter?"
Eva took a deep breath. “We must eject the antimatter, immediately.” She pictured Carlos screaming in frustration as no one responded to him. How many trillions of Sols had that antimatter production cost? “It must not be aboard when the lifeboat explodes."
“Without antimatter, the clan is trapped. What matter then that you two are my hostages?” The text caption for emotional content read: anguish. “Perhaps Mashkith has gone mad and Lothwer was a hero. Perhaps this is all a trick."
A corner of Eva's mind's eye showed UP marines in full armor begin a frantic micro-gee scramble down stairwells—and then someone cut her access. Keffah's eyes glazed, and she growled. Her sensors or soldiers must be reporting the same assault to her. She surely thought Eva's appearance with Art was a ruse.
Suspicion and hesitation by any side would kill them all. “Keffah, you and I worked together. We both know what even a little ant
imatter can do. Your people still hold the bridge instruments. What do they say about the Foremost's ship?” Several guards had raised their guns. Eva tried to ignore both them and the knot in her gut. “Keffah, when that fully fueled lifeboat blows, Himalia will seem like a wet firecracker."
Blink-blink. “Still you do not understand. What destroyed Himalia was far more complex than one explosion."
So there had been an interaction with the interstellar drive, as Art had speculated. It didn't matter. They had no time! Gunshots and explosions could already be heard in the distance. What help could come of an armed break-in? The engine room contained a running fusion reactor and massive antimatter containers. “That lifeboat must hold tonnes of antimatter. The EMP will be huge! It will destroy the BEC containers on Victorious."
“Nice try.” Keffah gestured to the guards. “Lock them in a storeroom somewhere. If you find time, bring them oxygen bottles occasionally."
* * * *
The instrumentation aboard Renown was mostly dead and wholly unreliable The single factor operating in Mashkith's favor was familiarity. This ship was of the same type as his last command. So very far away, he had obsessively studied, and still remembered, every feature, quirk, tradeoff, and design detail of Defiant. At least, since he had to diagnose and fly this dying ship by instinct, those instincts were sure and deft.
His twin difficulties, in maintaining a course and achieving a decent speed, must stem from related causes. Maybe a tank seam had given way, spraying high-pressure hydrogen into space. Maybe the reaction-mass pump had burst, and its shrapnel had ruptured the hydrogen tank. Either way, he was about to lose the fusion drive.
With what little attention he could spare, Mashkith followed the drama in the engine room. Perhaps Keffah was right to disbelieve the humans. Electromagnetic pulses were a natural consequence of nuclear explosions—not that purposeful fusion bombs and antimatter accidents were exactly the same. Their clan, any clan, understood EMPs well and knew how to shield from them. With no confidence in the few remaining computers aboard Renown, Mashkith did not bother to guess the strength of the EMP from his imminent immolation.
His final duty was to get this accidental bomb, and any EMP it created, as far as possible from the clan. What happened thereafter was in the claws and hands and tentacles of others.
* * * *
So what in an engine room can prisoners touch to propel themselves? Apparently nothing. A firm shove in the small of Art's back started him moving. He hoped they remembered to keep their claws in. He hoped the storeroom in which they were about to be locked had lights.
EMPs didn't scare the Snakes. EMPs didn't scare the fleet. Maybe only sheltered techies panicked about EMPs. And then it hit him. “Pashwah-qith, let K'choi Gwu ka communicate with us."
Gwu spoke immediately. “What is this EMP?"
“A high-intensity burst of broad-spectrum electromagnetic energy, as a side effect of nuclear explosions,” Eva explained. “You get an EMP when highly energetic photons slam into matter and eject a pulse of electrons. And matter/antimatter destruction produces extremely energetic photons."
Keffah made no comment. A guard gave Art another shove to speed his trajectory. No one seemed too concerned with how hard he was about to smack a wall—and in seconds or minutes, it could not matter to him, either. “Gwu, is Harmony hardened against EMPs? Are the BEC containers protected?"
“Why would they be? The Unity has never made nuclear weapons."
“Bring them back!” shouted Keffah, just as Art bounced off the wall. Pashwah-qith's caption read: stunned realization. “Ka, can the antihydrogen be vented safely?"
“Yes. The containment vessel abuts the main hull. With an emergency hatch open, only electromagnetic containment separates the BECs from space. An asymmetry is introduced into the magnetic field. That creates a magnetic tube and propulsive gradient. The antihydrogen diffuses into the vacuum."
Art put out a hand to catch himself on a passing workstation. “Keffah, we have a lot of antimatter to purge."
“And a fusion reactor to shut down as well.” Keffah shuddered.
“Everyone,” Gwu said. “The antimatter purge and reactor shutdown are automated. Once you initiate them, they will complete on their own.
“Get them started and start running for the bow—now!"
* * * *
Mashkith discovered he was shivering. Soon after, as his breath began to condense before his eyes, it hardly surprised him that temperature control had failed. Considering the extent of the damage Renown had sustained, he counted himself fortunate to have cabin pressure. He struggled into a space suit now for its insulation and electric heater.
The bridge grew ever dimmer, as alarm LEDs transitioned from dire far red to even more ominous quiescence. His last view of the lifeboat's bridge alarms, before the inter-ship data link stopped working, was a fiery yellow expanse too dazzling to view unfiltered.
The fusion drive had sputtered to a halt with Renown less than one-tenth light-second ahead of Victorious. Momentum continued to increase their separation at a pathetic rate. The rear attitude jets, before they exhausted their fuel, gave him a tiny bit more velocity.
Was this far enough away? Too little of Renown's computing capability had survived to answer that question. Either way, Mashkith thought, my work is done. He hoped to the core of his heart that the clan would survive—even though things had not turned out as he had planned.
How strange a way to die, he thought. I won't even know when it happens. And now I'll never get to see—
* * * *
In an instant, Renown transformed. It became a blinding eruption of energy, very briefly the brightest object in the sky—for beings that saw gamma rays.
News of the explosion could travel no faster than the wave front that struck Victorious. In one-tenth second, the thirty-thousand-kilometer gap was crossed. The torrent of high-energy photons became a cascade of scattered electrons. Computers, generators, controllers, communications links, lighting circuits—anything that was still powered up when the EMP struck, died.
Roughly a gram of antihydrogen remained to be vented when the EMP killed the containment electronics. The resulting explosion, with a force comparable to the atomic bomb that once leveled Nagasaki, blew the stern off Victorious.
The remaining two-thirds of the hull were left tumbling violently.
* * * *
CHAPTER 44
Bone-weary, Art plodded along behind a squad of marines across Harmony's vast landing platform. Imagined survivors still trapped in the wreckage, alone in the deepening cold and darkness, haunted him. As exhausted as he was, Art had ordered—and joined—search party after search party until the marines forced him to stop. It was too dangerous, they insisted, to stay any longer, despite the hundreds who remained unaccounted for. That so many more were almost certainly dead, their vacuum-boiled and bloated corpses blown into space, was too much to absorb.
He and Eva had barely escaped, saved only because they were already in pressure suits as they fled from the inevitable explosion. Even now, the memories sought to overwhelm him: Clinging desperately to each other and a bent segment of railing. The whistling air pouring through rips in the hull. The eerie absence of sirens, since all alarm circuits had been fried by the EMP. The terrified shrieks, fading with the falling pressure. The bombardment by the bodies of the dead and dying....
Eva walked beside him, a bit unsteadily; she had refused to leave Harmony until he did. The stars wobbled overhead, or so the starship's random tumbling made it seem. The world rumbled once more beneath his feet. “Hold on!” he shouted to Eva. Yet another section of the explosion-weakened hull ruptured, spewing gases and random flotsam into space. The magnetic soles of their pressure-suit boots were set to maximum, but as the ground shook, he clasped Eva's arm in a vise-like grip. I won't lose you again.
Deep pits and long, shiny gouges scarred the platform. He shivered every time they encountered a gash, for each was a crash site
. UP warships crumpling into or careening off the starship's bucking deck had added hundreds more to the death toll. The pursuit ships were all EMP-protected, but they had run out of everything except weapons. They had a velocity into deep space of two percent light speed; their only possible source of deuterium/tritium and reaction mass for a return flight was the starship.
They marched toward the one ship remaining on the platform. The rest of the evacuation fleet had already launched. Fifty-three overcrowded vessels, some Hunter, some refueled human ships, had begun their long journey back to the warmth and light of Sol. No Centaur lifeboats joined them; like the starship itself, the lifeboats were unhardened against EMPs. Fortunately for the Centaurs, their spacesuits were entirely powered down when the disaster struck, and so were unaffected by the EMP.
So many deaths, and yet dangers still lurked. Arblen Ems refugees had once fled into exile in a cometary belt—and from there staged raids on their enemies. Might they do the same in Sol system? The risk was unacceptable: UP warcraft on the flanks and rear of the flotilla would destroy any ship that wandered from its assigned course.
At last they reached the waiting UP cruiser. Art and Eva shuffled up the ramp and into the inviting airlock of Actium. A peculiar keening startled Art as the inner door cycled open. He looked wildly about for its source, only to encounter the eagle-tattooed and smiling face of Capt. Aaron O'Malley. An honor guard standing stiffly at attention lined both sides of the corridor.
The bosun's whistle cut off abruptly. O'Malley gave a smart salute. “Welcome aboard, Ambassador. Doctor Gutierrez."
Art popped off his helmet. “You can't believe how good it feels to be back."
Actium launched moments after O'Malley, Art, and Eva entered the bridge. They watched in silence as what remained of the abandoned starship, still tumbling about three axes, still jetting gases randomly as more and more of the traumatized hull gave way, receded into the distance. Its farms and parks were dying or dead, its emergency fuel cells were exhausted, its stockpiles drained. The shattered, hemorrhaging wreck seemed neither victorious nor harmonious, only sad. You were a fine ship, Art thought. You deserved better.
Analog SFF, September 2006 Page 21