by Ian Douglas
Escorting these larger vessels were the light destroyer Constellation, two frigates, the Rebel and the Valiant, and three corvettes. These were six of the eighteen warships Dev had captured in a lightning raid against the Imperial shipyards at Athena months earlier, just before the rebel evacuation from New America. The rest would stay behind to protect the Confederation's government . . . whether here at Herakles, or while moving from system to system as part of Sinclair's plan to avoid confrontation with the Empire.
"That'll be damned tight, Dev," Sinclair told him. "The vote is scheduled in Congress in another twenty-two hours. Make arrangements with your ship captains. If they're not ready to boost at the same time as you, they'll have to follow later and rendezvous with you at Alya."
Dev nodded. "We already have the navigational arrangements and protocols set up," he said, "since we can't keep track of one another in K-T space. If some of us make the K-T transition before others, it won't matter."
"Good."
"Our biggest problem, sir, is the CT. The last I heard they wouldn't be coming aboard until late tomorrow. I was told they were still working on some contact scenarios through the Rogue's AI."
Sinclair looked at Ortiz, who'd been sitting quietly throughout the discussion so far. "Professor?"
Arguably the most important contingent on the expedition was the Contact Team, fifteen men and women with experience dealing with the DalRiss, or who'd extensively studied various aspects of DalRiss culture, science, and language since the return of the Imperial Expeditionary Force three years earlier. Professor Ortiz was the senior contact officer. Technically, Dev and Katya were both members of the Contact Team as well, since both of them had dealt with the DalRiss during that earlier expedition, but since they were likely to be busy dealing with Imperials once planetfall was made, they would join the team only for negotiations with the DalRiss government, or if their particular expertise was needed.
"I'll talk to my people, sir," Ortiz said. "We ought to be able to keep working on those sims aboard Eagle. The less complex ones, anyway."
"That sounds satisfactory," Sinclair said. "See if you can move up the timetable. But don't discuss the change in boost time, please. I'd rather my compatriots in Congress didn't know you'd gone until after the fact."
"Won't this get you into some kind of trouble?" Katya wanted to know.
"I doubt it. Lauer already hates both Grant here and me. He'd love to see supreme command given to someone else . . . preferably a Rainbowman. He'll bluster and fume if he finds out you've already left, but there won't be much he can do about it. The danger is if he gets word you're bolting early and takes it into his head to order troops to stop you from leaving. That could split CONMILCOM and the government wide open. I'd rather not risk that, not now."
"You could keep me here, General," Dev said slowly. "I'm not absolutely necessary to the expedition."
"Maybe. I think you are. Of all the ship captains in the fleet, even those with experience with squadron-level tactics, you're the best we have. You've proved it, at Eridu, at Athena, and at New America." He shrugged. "You know, we have no idea how large the Imperial squadron at Alya is. You might get out there and find a couple of frigates. We hope that's the case, and Intelligence suggests that the Imperial fleet assets at Alya are, in fact, quite small. With the Rebellion spreading through the Frontier, they can't afford to tie down too many ships that far from home.
"But you just might break out of K-T space out there and find a major squadron waiting for you. Cruisers. Even one of their Ryus, though Milliken has personally assured me that all of their dragonships are accounted for." Charles Milliken was the Confederation's head of Military Intelligence.
"Charming thought," Katya said. Dev remained silent, wondering where Sinclair was going.
"Dev, this mission is a long shot. We all know that. Even if the Imperials prove to be no problem at all out there, there's no guarantee that the DalRiss will be willing to cooperate, and we must have their help, or we're going to lose this war."
Dev blinked. "Sir, you can't believe that. Or you wouldn't have brought us to where we are. The whole war can't depend on whether or not a handful of us are able to establish communication with—"
"It can, and I'm afraid it does, son. You know, when this thing started, I wasn't looking for a clean break with the Imperium. I thought maybe we could reach some sort of accommodation, a compromise, but it's gone too far for that, too far by half. When it turned into a military struggle, with the fighting at Eridu, a lot of us thought that simply demonstrating that we were willing to stand up against the Empire would be enough to force them to back down, to say, 'all right, this is getting expensive, let them go.' "
"It didn't happen that way."
"No. It didn't. Because we underestimated just how far some elements of the Imperial and Hegemony governments were willing to go to hang on to the power they had. Or to save face. We also underestimated—I underestimated—the willingness of the Frontier worlds to take a stand. Some of them, Liberty and Rainbow, for instance, are in the thick of it, but a lot more are sitting on the fence, sending delegates to Congress but unwilling to send men, ships, equipment. Our revolution is going to die, Dev, unless we can turn it around with something big.
"That's why I'm investing so much on this mission. You, Katya, with most of your regiment. You, Dev, with a fair-sized percentage of our entire fleet. If anyone can exploit this, this rift between the DalRiss and the Empire, it's the two of you."
"You're leaving a terrible hole in the defenses here, sir," Dev said quietly.
"Not really. Here, Eagle and Tarazed and the other ships in your squadron might delay the inevitable . . . how much? A month? A year, perhaps? But the end would be the same, sooner or later. Mostly, our survival depends on whether or not I can avoid large-scale contact with the enemy, because when that happens, the Confederation Navy is finished, and Eagle's presence won't make that big a difference, one way or the other.
"Out there, though, well, who can say? We have a chance, a small but clean chance, of winning friends powerful enough that we just might end the war. Of convincing the Imperials that it would be cheaper to let us have our freedom than to keep fighting.
"But the key is not going to be how many troops or ships I send to Alya. It's going to be the genius of the people leading them, because, thank God, people still make better decisions than machines, and some people perform far better than others. You two are such people, and the fate of the Rebellion, of this Confederation, might well be riding with the two of you."
"My God," Katya said, her voice so low that Dev barely caught it. "You sure don't believe in putting any pressure on your people, do you?"
If Sinclair heard her words, he ignored them. Dev said nothing, his mind was racing. He ought, he told himself, to tell Morton and Sinclair that he was not the man to lead the Confederation squadron, that it would be better—safer—to assign him to one of the ships remaining at Herakles. There were other senior officers better qualified than he—Admiral Herren, for instance, or Captain Jase Curtis of the Tarazed—people who did not question their own sanity.
As Dev had recently begun questioning his.
Chapter 11
Individuality is alien to Naga thought. With only a single organism occupying a given world, that organism believes itself to be the sole intelligence in its entire universe; indeed, for the Naga, intelligence and self are indistinguishable concepts. In the course of its explorations of its universe, a Naga will "bud" pieces of itself as scouts capable of independent action and thought, scouts that return to the parent body the memory of the scout's wanderings. By building on this experience, planetary Nagas can form conceptual analogue-pictures of separate entities, each with a unique viewpoint and history. This requires considerable flexibility on the Naga's part, however, far more than that required, say, by a member of one human culture attempting to understand the point of view of someone raised with a different cultural world view.
&
nbsp; —Intelligent Expectations
Dr. James Phillip Kantor
CE. 2542
Thirty-two thousand kilometers above Herakles, the Imperial fleet decelerated into synchronous orbit. The planet, half-full, gleamed in the warm yellow light of Mu Herculis, its seas blue and violet, its clouds and polar ice caps gleaming white with golden highlights.
The fleet, designated Ohka Squadron, consisted of nineteen warships ranging in size from eight-hundred–ton Hari-class corvettes to the flagship, a Ryu-class carrier, massing two million tons and just short of one thousand meters in length. Nudged by brief flashes from maneuvering jets, the armada deployed, the ships spreading out across six thousand kilometers of empty space. Blocks of data flickered and shifted next to the images of the various ships, information telling of vectors, relative velocities, and combat readiness.
The scene, portrayed through virtual reality, was being experienced by a number of observers, an invisible gallery of onlookers whose vantage point shifted back and forth among three of those orbiting Imperial warships. They included captains and department heads from several vessels; senior was Chujo Takeshi Miyagi, commander in chief of Otori Squadron. Among the watchers was the bright and tactically innovative Shosho Tomiji Kima, commanding officer of the flagship Karyu, the Fire Dragon. Kima had been Karyu's Executive Officer under Miyagi until eight months ago, when Miyagi had been promoted to full admiral and given command of Otori Squadron.
"At this point," a voice was telling the watchers in Nihongo, "the Ryu-class carrier and two of the cruisers have already begun their bombardment of the rebel position on the planet's surface. So far, there is no response from the enemy on the ground."
Kima studied the data displays carefully, encoding ship positions and deployments within his personal RAM for future study on his own. Later, too, he would examine in detail the disposition of the squadron's marine warstriders and infantry on the surface. This ViRsimulation would be restricted to the battle, if such it could be called, fought in orbit over Herakles some four months earlier.
One of the ships, he noticed, one of the four big Kako-class cruisers, was in trouble.
"It was at this point that something went badly wrong," the voice continued. The speaker, Kima knew, was Shosa Chokugen Takaji, the fleet's senior military intelligence specialist. "We believe that the rebels were able somehow to take over Mogami's engineering AIs and instigate a quantum power tap start-up."
"I don't understand, Shosasan," another voice said. "How could turning on a QPT be considered a weapon?"
"Obviously, Imadasan," Admiral Miyagi said, replying for the shosa, "you xenosophontologists are taught nothing about starship engineering or power core operation." A ripple of polite laughter sounded from the other unseen watchers.
"Quite so," the intelligence officer said. "The QPT uses paired, artificially generated microsingularities to extract energy from the quantum plenum. These are molecule-sized black holes orbiting one another at speeds approaching that of light, and with mutual, finely tuned harmonic resonances. They are rarely used in close proximity to a planet, since local gravity fields distort the shape of space and can affect that harmonic tuning. Somehow, we presume through one of our own communications bands, someone on the surface linked with Mogami's AI, started up the power tap, and then ordered the computer to shut down. Without the computer to tune the singularities' harmonics from microsecond to microsecond within a gravitational well, they went random and initiated an uncontrolled power cascade. One evaporated in a burst of energy. Note the readings there on the right. Intense X rays and gamma radiation are flooding Mogami's engineering spaces."
Indeed, the readings taken from a nearby ship had gone off the scale. A schematic diagram drew itself in an empty patch of space nearby, sketching in the interior spaces of the six-hundred-meter cigar that was Mogami. The observers watched as the cruiser's engineering decks began crumpling inward, the pace of the vessel's destruction slowed to a fraction of its realtime pace.
Implacably, the voice continued, describing the cruiser's death. "With the evaporation of one microsingularity, of course, the second was flung clear in a gravitational slingshot effect at relativistic speeds. It was moving more slowly by the time it left the ship. Repeated interactions with Mogami's interior structure slowed it significantly as it passed along the cruiser's length, devouring armor, hull metal, bulkheads, circuitry, crew members, and anything else that happened to lie in its path before emerging . . . there."
Mogami and its transparent cutaway view both were crumpling as the observers watched, the one a mirror to the other. A dazzling point of light emerged from just behind the ship's bow, streaking outward. An instant later it, too, evaporated and vanished into the depths of space in a nova's glare of visible light and hard radiation that silently washed across the hulls of every ship in the Imperial squadron.
"Many of the ships sustained lethal damage at this point," the admiral's voice went on, emotionless. "The micro black hole's explosive evaporation must have been equivalent to the simultaneous detonation of some thousands of nuclear warheads. EMP and radiation damage crippled at least half the ships and inflicted thousands of casualties.
"Admiral Kawashima recognized what was happening, of course, and shut down all external communications links. The rebels were unable to directly influence any more of our shipboard AIs. As a result, they almost immediately changed tactics. Please keep your attention focused on the planet."
The face of the world, half-full, was changing.
The transformation was so rapid that Kima was not at first sure what he was seeing. At a point not far from the equator, clouds were gathering in a great, spiraling whorl, moving so quickly that even from synchorbit their movement could be seen by the naked eye as a slow, writhing crawl. Under extreme magnification and image enhancement, they took on a distinctly three-dimensional aspect, each tiny thunderhead edged by its own shadow. Where seconds before perhaps half of the planet's seas and barren stretches of land and ice cap were visible, new clouds were appearing, puffing up out of nothing, crowding together, deepening, quickening, building a hurricane that spanned a quarter of the planet's visible disk as Kima watched.
At the heart of that eerie, titanic storm, lightnings pulsed and throbbed, like a heartbeat cast in light to make it visible, each silent flicker muffled and diffused by the masking clouds. Near Herakles's north pole, a thin smear of pale, wavering light just visible against that portion of the polar zone in darkness faded, then winked out almost magically. Data flickered and shifted in the overlaid information displays.
Abruptly, something happened . . . a flicker of motion, a flash of light. Those in the audience could not be sure exactly what, if anything, they'd just seen. New blocks of data wrote themselves across parts of the display, registering events invisible to human senses.
"That first shot missed," the admiral said. "I'll have the simulation AI play the next one at a reduced speed. Time factor five to one."
It happened again, but this time slowly enough that the watchers could perceive a thread of intensely brilliant, blue-white light streaking up from the precise center of that whirlpool of clouds, a point marked by a tiny hole, the storm's eye. The thread drew itself skyward, razor crisp, laser-beam straight, detaching itself from the planet slowly at first, then spearing into the midst of the Imperial fleet with an apparent acceleration, an illusion created by perspective.
"Time factor one thousand to one."
The movement slowed again, sharply. The thread became a tiny, fiercely radiating star drifting rapidly upward through empty space, targeted precisely on the heavy cruiser Zintu, sister to Mogami.
The imagery obviously had been captured at the extreme limit of those sensors recording the event, but the resolving power was good enough to record in detail the explosion unfolding like a blossoming flower, a blinding dazzle of actinic violence that briefly outshone the glare of Mu Herculis itself. Zintu simply vanished, her enormous, cylindrical bulk converte
d in an instant into that glare of raw energy . . . plus a few hurtling scraps of twisted and half-molten debris flung clear by that rapidly expanding wave front. Other ships nearby, a frigate and a small destroyer, were lightly brushed by Zintu's flowering, a caress that boiled away hull metal and armor, turrets and fairings, and left both vessels lifeless, blast-tortured wrecks.
"Kuso," someone in the audience said quietly, almost reverently.
"The missile," the admiral continued as though he'd not heard, "was analyzed spectroscopically. It was nothing more than a block of nanofactured fabricrete and iron massing approximately one metric ton, accelerated to a velocity of over ten percent of the speed of light and glowing partly from the friction of its passage through the Heraklean atmosphere, and partly from the play of incredible energies across its surface. We believe it was part of the outer shell of one of the atmosphere generating units on Herakles's surface. After traversing the thirty thousand kilometers between the ground and Zintu in nine-tenths of one second, it struck the cruiser amidships. We calculate that the transitional kinetic energy liberated by that impact was somewhere between 1019 and 1020 joules, or some one thousand times the yield of a twentymegaton thermonuclear warhead. It appears, gentlemen, that the rebels have found a dramatic means of overcoming their lack of nuclear weaponry."
There was an uncomfortable stir among the watchers, and Kima heard the murmur of urgent, low-voiced exchanges among them. The Imperium had long maintained its military superiority over the Shichiju through the simple expedient of being the only one of the Hegemony's member states permitted through the government's charter to possess nuclear weapons. There were rumors that the rebels were working on developing such weapons for themselves. With this demonstration at Herakles, perhaps they no longer needed them.