by Mel Keegan
“Plus a full-size Fleet tender, and the last mark is more than likely a hospital ship.” Rusch looked up and back at Vaurien. “And here they come – just like Velcastra.”
Enough like Velcastra for Travers’s belly to crawl. He handed the mugs to Curtis and Richard as they waited for the Mako to respond. Etienne had raised the AI at once, but van Donne’s people had clearly left the ship on automatics, and when a human voice answered at last, it was Ramon.
“Hey, Richard, que pasa?”
“Sending you data,” Vaurien said tersely. “Drag the boss out of bed, Ramon. You better get tucked in behind Nysos, and do it quick.”
The data was coming up on the Mako’s screens now, and Ramon swore lividly. “Santo mierda.” And then, bellowing: “Sergei! Sergei, venir aquí, rápido!”
They heard van Donne’s voice, gruff, muffled with distance between him and the audio pickup: “Fuckit, Ramon, this better be good.”
“We’re on, man. It’s now,” Ramon barked. “Están aquí.”
“They bloody can’t be,” van Donne shouted.
“They bloody can be,” Ramon said just as loudly, “and we’re visible – we’re out in open goddamn’ space.”
A pause while van Donne digested the data, and his voice was a bass growl. “Shit, Vaurien, where’d the bastards come from? This fast?”
“Security leak. Had to be.” Vaurien sent the system plot over from the flatscreen to the navtank. “You might want to get out of sight.”
And van Donne: “You don’t say. Doing it now. Engines online … Ramon, get your butt back there and drag Rafe outta the sack.”
“Doing that,” Ramon snarled. “Rafe! Move it!”
A third amber bar turned red. It was Ingersol’s cue, and he was on his feet. “Okay, I see it. I’m going. Give me half a minute to call a tech gang to the engine deck, and then – you want us the hell out of here, Richard?”
But Vaurien shook his head. “We’re safe enough where we are, and I want to see this. Piotr?”
From the flightdeck, the tug pilot responded at once. “Right here. Yuval’s on his way up.”
“Plot a Weimann solution for Alshie’nya and stand by.” Vaurien glanced away from the tank at Ingersol, who had stopped between the open armordoors. “Tully, bring the Weimanns on standby.”
Travers shared a dark look with Marin. “You want me to take tactical?”
“Oh, no.” Vaurien was emphatic. “We’re not fighting here. The weapon will defend Jagreth. If for any reason it doesn’t, all we can do – one ship against the whole battle group, carrier and all – is get the guts blasted out of the Wastrel, and the lot of us detained pending summary execution. We can’t go there. We have a date with Lai’a, remember.” He glanced at Travers and Marin over the rim of his cup. “You better call Harrison. He’s going to want to be here.”
As he spoke Jazinsky stepped in, and a pace behind her was Vidal. From the look on her face, she had already seen the data. Tight mouthed, Vidal joined Rusch. One hand on her shoulder, he skimmed the specifics swiftly, and swore. “Well, now. I guess rampaging paranoia’s no guarantee against missing one.”
“And one’s all it takes.” Marin leaned both palms on the side of the tank. “Etienne, how long before the intruders are in range of the mines?”
“Given unaltered speed and vector,” the AI said coolly, “in forty minutes the intruders will encounter Swarm 4.”
The Mako was a red icon hustling into the sensor blind of the moon, and there she went dark, engines, active scan, even her comm shutting down. The Wastrel was similarly tucked in. Only mild residual heat from the engines would give away her position, but would not identify her. Active sensors were powered down, though Etienne was receiving the constant datastream from the drones deployed on entry to the system.
In the navtank, the minefields were marked as discrete areas of dull mauve which would brighten to red as they came alive. Six fields – or swarms, as they were swiftly coming to be known, since they were little like inert minefields – guarded Jagreth, one for each charted shipping road into the inner worlds. The fields were loud with exclusion beacons warning civilian and commercial craft to stay away; and the eyes and ears of the swarms were comm drones – semi-intelligent in their own right, quite smart enough to recognize the profile and IFF of Fleet warships.
“So a Confederate ship made it out.” Jazinsky yawned as she joined Vaurien at the tank. “The London showed up early, what’s it matter?” She slid an arm around his waist. “They get here today, tomorrow – it’s all the same. I could have wished they’d saved it for morning. That was the first sound sleep I’ve had in a week.”
Heavy, stomping footsteps from the passage stretching back to the labs announced Hubler, and Rodman was not far behind, still dragging both hands through the pillow-tousle of her hair. The loop was as busy as if the tug were on assignment. Marin was talking to Judith Fargo – where were the elements of Bravo who had shipped with Shapiro? Bill Grant wanted to know if the Infirmary should be cranked up; Vaurien told him no. Yuval Greenstein was with Cassals on the flightdeck by now, and though the drive remained cold, Ingersol was fine-tuning, tinkering.
“Thirty minutes,” Etienne said with the surreal smoothness of an AI. “IFF is recognized: DeepSky Fleet London.”
“What a surprise,” Travers said bitterly.
“Harrison.” Vaurien was on his feet as Shapiro and Kim walked up from the lifts. “You want to call President Prendergast?”
Shapiro did not look rested, as if he had been jerked awake after insufficient sleep, but as long as Marin had known him, his mind had never failed to drop into gear, no matter the time or situation. “Do I want to? Not particularly,” he admitted, and then asked shrewdly, “how long till Jagreth’s own deep scan network sees the intruders?”
“Guessing …” Vaurien stroked his chin. “Forty or fifty more minutes before civilian systems get hold of this. And you’re about to ask, how long till the battle group runs face-first into the mines? Under thirty minutes unless they cut speed and change course. Etienne?”
“No change of speed or vector,” the AI told him. “Minefield 4 is coming online.”
Master control drones in the swarm had recognized the super-carrier’s IFF and the whole field was activating. Travers felt a peculiar shiver. In the tank, the mauve cloud marking its position shifted to a subtle red, brightened, and he could have sworn it was moving. Swarming. Each mine was only the size of a melon, and its temperature was ambient with the profound cold of deep space. The scan platform of a science ship, specifically configured, would be able to see them, but warship sensors were calibrated to pick out objects the size of ships, or at the very least missiles. They ignored the flotsam and jetsam of discarded hardware which soon cluttered any system.
Discreet, cautious, Shapiro slipped a combug into his ear and withdrew to a workstation well away from the tank. “Etienne, call Chesterfield Control. Get me President Prendergast. The code is jour de l'indépendance.”
“You want the government to evacuate?” Rusch asked quietly as they waited for Prendergast.
But Shapiro’s head was shaking. “This is merely a courtesy call. The man has a right to know the battle for this system is happening … the planet doesn’t need to know one damn’ thing till it’s over. Remember Velcastra?”
As if Travers would ever forget. He and Marin had no active role to play here. They drew aside with Vidal and Rabelais, Hubler and Rodman, and moments later Jo Queneau appeared. Like Jazinsky she had already seen the data, and she cut a direct line for the autochef, and coffee.
She had a bleak look for Rabelais. “Damnit, Ernst, you should have bloody woken me.”
“You were sound asleep, kiddo,” he argued. “You think I was about to wake you to watch a lot of poor conscript bastards get snuffed? It’s not a spectator event.” He nodded at the tank. “Jesus, look at the mines … they’re swarming. Like hornets. Surreal. Like they’re alive.”
“In
a limited sense, you could say they are,” Jazinsky mused, watching the same display. “They can’t make copies of themselves, and they don’t need to forage for food, but they have the awareness of a cockroach and a keen sense of their purpose. They might not scavenge or hunt prey, but you could say they forage for gravity fields, and they’re sensitive to incredibly minute ones. They can easily surf on the micro-gravities created by a mass the size of an ore-hauler. Or a super-carrier.”
“They sleep, listen – wake,” Rabelais said grimly. “They know the IFF of Fleet ships … they swarm, sniff out gravity fields, and implode. Like warrior ants defending the nest.”
“Twenty-five minutes,” Etienne warned. “Beacon 4 is transmitting.”
Beacon 4 was the comm drone parked on station keeping at the head of Swarm 4, and Travers knew what it was broadcasting. Warning: you are entering the restricted space of the Federal Republic of Jagreth. Turn back immediately. Warning: you are entering a protected zone, you will be destroyed. Turn back immediately. The message looped endlessly, from the moment it was triggered to the time the intruders either cleared the zone or were neutralized.
Now all eyes were on the navtank, waiting, watching, while Shapiro spoke in sporadic murmurs to Prendergast. Jagreth’s own ATC would know nothing for another half hour – civilian systems were too insubstantial, and the swarms of tiny Zunshu weapons were far outside the domestic traffic lanes which wove a tangle around the planet itself.
“Twenty minutes,” Etienne announced. “No change of speed or vector. Standby.”
At ten minutes, the battle group would be almost on top of the ‘protected zone.’ The swarm would begin to lock onto them – soon enough, each individual mine would acquire the micro-gravities of the London itself.
“They’re running out of time,” Rusch whispered.
“I don’t think Colonel Carvalho would be inclined to see it that way.” Jazinsky was massaging the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefingers. “He’s not going to turn back.”
Marin was glaring into the tank. “How good is this data?”
“You mean, given the signal lag?” Vaurien pulled the clasp from his hair and massaged his scalp with both hands. “Even with cutting-edge Resalq signal boosting, this data is about ten minutes old. It’s the best we can do.”
“And the battle group is – was! – forming up,” Travers added. “The London’s dropping astern. We bloody knew Carvalho would fall back on the typical old Fleet strategy, it’s the whole reason the Confederacy put him on that poor ship.” He looked bleakly at Shapiro. “You tipped the bastard for throwing colonials at colonials, and if they’re erased, what does it matter? Looks like you were right. He’s going to do it.”
Framed in the blue-black void of the tank, the fat red icon flagging the super-carrier had cut speed; a cruiser and a frigate were forging ahead and the Zunshu devices had begun to swarm in great numbers. Travers swallowed hard, reminding himself forcibly, all this happened ten long minutes ago. Signal lag was a bitch. The Battle of Jagreth could already be over – no matter the outcome, the data would arrive according to the immutable laws of physics.
“Beacon 4 has been eliminated,” Etienne reported calmly.
Shapiro’s head came up. “Carvalho’s response to the clear, explicit warning of a protected zone was to shoot the messenger?” He held the combug to his ear, listened, and then, “Yes, Mr. President, that is correct. Colonel Carvalho has fired the first shot. The beacon has been destroyed … yes, sir, the weapon has acquired multiple targets … we don’t know that yet – remember the distances involved. Signal delay is inevitable. Please standby.” He plucked the bug from his ear, palmed it to shut off its audio pickup and muttered, “Goddamned civilians, did they learn nothing in school? He wants data now.”
“He can’t have it,” Rusch rasped.
“He could get it a little sooner,” Vaurien mused, “but not in realtime.” He lifted a brow at Shapiro. “Tully, are Weimanns on standby?”
And Ingersol, from the engine deck: “Of course. We’re still running dark, but the igniters are online. We’re at ‘go’ minus ten seconds, just like we set it up.”
“This ship goes anywhere near some freakin’ battlefield,” Rabelais said softly, “and she’ll be up on her toes, ready to run. We’re not a warship. Thank gods we’re not a warship.”
“From Nysos we can be out at the Weimann exclusion limit in 108 seconds,” Vaurien said levelly to Shapiro, “and we can jump to Swarm 4 in a matter of seconds. Get fresher data, jump right back. Prendergast can have his data five minutes early, if it matters so badly.”
But Shapiro was making negative gestures. “I’m not going to ask the Wastrel to go anywhere near any battlefield, and I’d expect you to decline, if I was witless enough to ask it. She’s the second most valuable ship that ever existed in the Deep Sky – the first being Lai’a itself.” His lips compressed. “Prendergast can learn some patience … not to mention a little elementary physics.” He slipped the bug back into his ear and grimaced. “Yes, Mr. President … yes, I’m watching the datastream right now … no, sir, I can’t relay it to you. Unless you have a threedee configured for celestial navigation the information will be unintelligible.”
“And you don’t find too many navtanks in presidential offices,” Vidal said in a harsh whisper.
“Active swarm encounter,” Etienne announced.
It was still speaking when the arrowhead icons marking the positions of the cruiser and frigate winked out. Around the Ops room, lungs that had been burning spasmed in a communal breath of reaction. A thousand lives had just ended, snuffed into nothingness.
“Turn around,” Travers growled. “For godsakes, you madman, turn the carrier back!”
For some moments he thought Carvalho might actually do it. The icon marking the position of the London slowed as the ship cut speed again, but two cruisers were already moving up ahead. Yellow sparks flashed on around them in the graphical display and Etienne said unnecessarily,
“Cruisers have opened fire.”
“Firing on what?” Vidal demanded. “They’ve seen the swarm?”
“I didn’t think seeing it was possible,” Queneau began. “I used to work on Fleet scanning and imaging systems – they can’t see a scatter of stuff the size of bits of rubbish, at the background temperature of deep space!”
“They’re firing at random.” Vidal was intent on the tank, not even blinking. “Etienne, close on 24x162, zoom it up … there. The bastard’s just hosing ordnance in the direction where he lost the ships, as if he figures there’s got to be something out there, probably a stealthed gun platform, certainly big, solid and stationary enough to hit with a railgun.”
“Logical. Worth a try,” Rusch said bitterly. She gave Vaurien and Shapiro an apologetic look. “In Carvalho’s place, I’d be thinking along the same lines. In the interests of saving my ships, I’d lay down speculative fire on the most promising coordinates.”
“I would hope you’d pull the goddamn’ battle group right out of there, Lex,” Rabelais remonstrated, “since you’ve got a few more viable brain cells than this bloody imbecile, Carvalho.”
“Of course I would,” she began, and then stopped as the icons marking the two cruisers winked out of existence. “Jesus, I don’t believe this.”
“It’s as if they learned nothing at Velcastra.” Travers heard the stress in his own voice and seemed to swallow his heart.
“Mr. President, I stress again,” Shapiro was saying for at least the third time, “this data is ten minutes old due to the signal delay caused by extreme distances. We wouldn’t be receiving it at all if the Wastrel hadn’t laid her own chain of sensor drones as we entered the system. There is no way to contact Colonel Carvalho directly in realtime, even with signal boosting technology. We’re already boosted to the maximum possible to drop the signal lag from forty minutes to ten … yes, sir, that is correct. Colonel Carvalho was warned repeatedly and unambiguously … yes, Mr. President, h
is response was to destroy the beacon.”
“And deploy warships.” Travers turned his back on the tank. “Then fire almost at random, in an attempt to destroy a hypothetical target.” He looked over at Marin and Vaurien. “These Fleet tactics were old when Carvalho was a cadet.”
“I learned them when I was a rookie,” Marin said bitterly.
“We all did.” Rusch was acerbic with disgust.
By now, a pair of markers had fallen well astern of the carrier. “Those two will be the tender and the hospital ship,” Jazinsky mused, “and you can bet your pension, Harrison, they’re loaded with Confederate observers.”
“Those ships are non-combatant,” Vidal added. “Carvalho won’t expect them to be fired on. The plan will be for them to stay well back, out of danger, and then run – get out with the intelligence if everything goes pear-shaped for Fleet.”
“But they will be ‘fired on,’ and I know it’s the wrong term.” Marin looked across at Jazinsky, who nodded silently. “Carvalho can’t know it, but a Zunshu swarm doesn’t make any differentiation between a hospital ship and a warship.”
“Can the commanders be warned?” Jon Kim asked pointedly. “Should they be?”
“They had the same warning as the whole battle group.” Rusch sounded tired, sad. “Colonel Carvalho is coming blasting in, expecting the non-combatants to be spared by human commanders on conventional ships. The question is, how long before even he realizes he’s up against something else?”
“Apparently, not soon enough. Look.” Vidal gestured into the tank.
Travers forced himself to watch, though Marin’s back was turned to the display. Four frigates and a cruiser were moving to the front in a spearhead formation, the classic attack pattern. Their chain guns were overlapping fire, sweeping space around them like a vast broom, and Rabelais asked softly,
“Can they hit the mines this way? I mean, I know they can’t see them, but can they hit them?”
“Oh, sure.” Jazinsky had moved closer to Vaurien. She leaned back into his chest and seemed to be sharing his body heat, as if she were chilled. “If they hit the mines by accident, the devices will trigger themselves – implode. The resulting gravity spike gives the rest of the swarm more surfing power. They just get faster. Also, the closer together you squeeze a bunch of ships, like this model attack formation Carvalho’s ordered, the higher their collective mass, which makes them a bigger gravity target. What you see here is going to draw the swarm like wriggling live bait.”