Infinite Day

by Chris Walley

  “But this would be an ambush. Can we get behind or to the side of them? Can you locate them?”

  “Yes. My estimates are that they are close together. A quarter of a million kilometers away.”

  “Could we get in a good firing position?”

  “It is possible.” I detect a lack of enthusiasm here.

  “How soon before they emerge and attack?”

  “I cannot say. Minutes or a few hours.”

  Merral looked at Vero. “Shall we?”

  “My friend, if it is indeed four, not eight, then it’s worth a try. If we are unsuspected, we may do a lot of damage. But we will need to be ready to escape.”

  “Of course. Let’s see if we can get closer. Betafor, give us the course.”

  “As you will.”

  An hour later, they had slipped much closer to the four ships. Or so Betafor said; Merral reminded himself that he had no independent evidence that the ships even existed. In the weapons section below him, there was a quiet and rising excitement. According to Betafor’s description of the layout of the battle group, the ships lay just ahead and slightly to port. With their attention focused on Bannermene and the Assembly defenses, the hope was that they might easily overlook—until too late—the possibility of an attack from the rear.

  Detailed plans were laid. For maximum surprise the Sacrifice would emerge without any indication that she was now an Assembly ship. Two frigates would be targeted immediately with phased spectrum lasers; with them disabled—or destroyed—the attack would shift to the two suppression complexes.

  The defense systems were primed. Countermissile rockets were loaded, the outer skin was tuned to maximum reflectance to reduce laser or beam weapon damage, and the screening missiles that would produce clouds of shards to destroy any incoming object were readied. The blast doors were closed and the hull sealant liquids mobilized.

  Merral ordered everybody to battle stations.

  And they waited.

  For the next two hours, they sat watching. Merral waited for Betafor to say something, but her only comment was that the Dominion vessels were still in Below-Space. Finally, just as Merral was beginning to wonder whether anything was going to happen, she moved her head sharply. “Check the screens. They are emerging.”

  Two, three, and then four fuzzy blobs of light appeared on the screen. The images sharpened into ships. Betafor is right: a battle group of four.

  Merral caught an expectant look from Laura. “Take her up,” he snapped.

  He nodded to Helga on his left, and she issued a curt order. “Weapons team: target and fire as we surface.”

  There was a sensation of movement. On the main screen, the gray nothingness began turning to a star-perforated expanse of black.

  A chorus of voices called out, “Targeting.” On the main monitoring screen, orange boxes slid up around the points of light.

  Betafor’s glassy voice could be heard. “Dominion ships are engaging Assembly vessels. Laser weapons.” Flashes of white light sped out from within the boxes. Let’s hope they stay focused on the targets.

  “Problem, sir!” Helga called out. “Second frigate is masked. By a suppression complex. Can’t get a good shot.”

  They were looking at him. They expect me to make the decision. It wasn’t hard: with Assembly ships being attacked, Merral felt no option but to get involved.

  “Continue as planned. Let’s take out the three visible ships first.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Across first one and then the other boxes, red crossbars appeared. Targets locked. He heard voices.

  “Left target acquired. Firing now.”

  “Central target acquired. Firing now.”

  “Right target acquired. Firing.”

  Three bass whispers came from within the ship.

  How silently we send death.

  The screen flashed white once, twice, three times.

  This is for Isabella, for Perena, for them all. For me! “How long before impact?” Merral asked, aware he ought to know.

  “Five seconds,” Helga said quietly.

  God, have mercy on friends. And foes.

  “Dominion fire hitting an Assembly vessel!” shouted a man to his right. “Assembly vessel disintegrating!”

  On the main screen, the star inside the left-hand orange box blossomed into three successive balloons of ruddy light.

  “First frigate hit,” said a voice to his right, trembling with emotion. In the central box a horizontal line of red flame bubbled up. “Make that destroyed.”

  “Did it fire?” Merral asked the man.

  “What?”

  “That frigate! Did it launch any missiles at us?”

  “No.”

  The middle box erupted into multiple flashes of crimson light. “Suppression complex struck!”

  There was a clenched fist raised. It’s too early to celebrate!

  The right-hand box shimmered and flashed three times before great clouds of boiling gas erupted. “Second suppression complex hit.”

  Three ships out of four! We are winning. Merral was aware his hands were sweating.

  “Targeting remaining frigate.”

  A new orange box appeared on the screen and then faded. “Too much debris.”

  “Keep trying!” Merral ordered.

  “Sir,” Helga said in a tone that told him something was wrong. “We’ve been spotted. The remaining frigate’s targeting us.” Hardly surprising, given we have blown up three quarters of the fleet.

  “Two Assembly ships destroyed. Missiles on their way.” It was a woman below.

  “On their way where?” Merral shouted. “Whose missiles?” Is it supposed to be this confused?

  “Sorry, sir. Missiles—their missiles—on their way to remaining Assembly vessels.”

  “Second frigate is now visible. Mutual targeting.” Helga’s tone was soft.

  Merral experienced a flurry of panic. What does “mutual targeting” mean? Of course; we are targeting each other.

  “Locking on to it. No, lock failed. Too much dust. Launching missiles instead.” It was the voice from the right again.

  “Who? Us or them? Give me clarity, Officer.”

  He heard a faint double rumble and a rising whine.

  “Sorry, sir, us. Two nuclear-tipped. Assembly ships firing too.” There was a pause. “Frigates firing too. It’s all a bit chaotic.”

  I’ll say.

  A siren wailed.

  “Incoming missiles.”

  Helga ordered the antimissile rockets launched and then, a moment later, the firing of the screening missiles. Ripples of vibration ran through the ship as the rockets fired.

  “Time to impact, a hundred and ten seconds,” someone called. “On us, that is.”

  Over the siren, Merral heard more cries: another Assembly vessel was destroyed, the lasers were now targeting the remaining Dominion vessel, the Sacrifice’s computer was trying to jam the incoming missiles. More chaos.

  “Fifty seconds.”

  The display lit up with a series of overlapping luminous discs.

  “Defensive screen deployed,” Helga said quietly.

  “Missile screen impact any second.”

  Two successive flashes of brilliant light appeared on the screen.

  “Incoming missiles destroyed.”

  A ragged cheer of relief sounded. Thank you, Lord.

  Merral looked at the screen. Two red crosshairs in an orange box were centered on a small silver star. Just one ship; we can surely take her.

  He was aware that the siren was still sounding. “Why’s the alarm still on?” he asked Helga and was answered by a shrug.

  There was a cheer, and he looked at the screen. Inside the red box were billowing clouds of light.

  “Fourth vessel destroyed, sir.” Helga allowed herself a rare smile.

  Merral breathed out heavily. He could feel the sweat rolling down his back. He stared at the screen. We never even saw them properly and yet we’ve destroyed t
hem. Men and machines are now dust. Easy!

  “Better declare we’re an Assembly vessel,” he ordered. It had been almost too easy.

  A startled shout came from a woman to his left. “Incoming missile!”

  That’s why the alarm was still sounding.

  Helga cried, “Deploy more antimissile defenses.”

  “No time,” came a shout from below.

  “Laura,” Merral bellowed. “Get us into Below-Space!”

  “Not enough time.”

  No time for anything.

  He saw Helga looking at him. “It’s an Assembly missile,” she said in a tone of surprise. “They fired at us. We didn’t declare our identity in time.”

  How silly, a case of mistaken identity. To them we are a Dominion destroyer.

  There was another call. “We’re trying to target it with a defensive missile. But the angle is bad.”

  “Thanks. It will be here in thirty seconds.”

  “Calling all crew: brace yourselves. Impact imminent.”

  The Dominion overlooked us, but we overlooked the Assembly.

  A series of booming, reverberating drumbeats struck the hull. The ship trembled. The lights went off and then came back on.

  Lights were flashing on all screens. Merral sensed no loss of air pressure. The hull has held.

  He saw Vero looking at him. “F-friendly fire,” he muttered. “I had hoped not to experience it.”

  “Didn’t feel friendly. But we seem to have survived. What happened, Helga?”

  “The warhead hit one of our debris screens and detonated at a distance. We got hit by fragments. The hull’s absorbed the radiation.”

  Merral could hear sighs of relief as the tension evaporated.

  “Laura, give me a full damage report.”

  “Some of the hull segments are punctured, Commander, but they are being sealed.”

  “Where?”

  A 3-D model of the ship appeared on-screen with flashing yellow lights. One point caught his eye.

  “That top point? Where is it?” A sense of alarm grabbed him.

  “The engineering blister.”

  “It was hit?”

  “I’m afraid that’s correct. Atmosphere is being restored.” Her face was pale.

  “You mean it was . . . vacuum? Luke was manning that . . .”

  “Yes. I can’t contact him.”

  “I’m going to get him.”

  “It’s dangerous. You’ll need a suit. There are sections with low atmospheric pressure; any of the plugs may fail. It’s still below freezing.”

  “I don’t care.”

  Merral ran for the door and Lloyd ran after him.

  They found Luke on the floor of the wrecked blister, its roof sealed with a dozen gray foam plugs. His eyes were wide open, and his face was glazed with ice. His torso had been ripped open, and all around him was a frozen pool of crimson blood.

  For a moment—or was it far longer?—Merral said nothing.

  Then he turned to Lloyd, numbly aware of the icy fog of his breath. “Luke is dead.”

  His words seemed dead themselves. He was aware of grief, of horror; but also puzzlement. This can’t happen.

  “Sorry, sir,” Lloyd said, his eyes turned to the figure on the floor.

  The speaker sounded. “Commander, we need you on the bridge. Now.”

  “Too easy.” I’ll never say that again.

  They turned and ran down the corridor. As they did, Merral felt the ship move. Fast, very fast, in a corkscrew motion.

  He tumbled through the door of the bridge. The main screen showed four more red flashing boxes.

  “What is it?”

  Helga didn’t look up. “Vero was right. There were eight ships. Four were waiting.”

  Laura flicked a glance at him. “We’re going into Below-Space. Very quickly.”

  Do I need to make decisions? I can’t. I am still numb. Luke is dead.

  Helga raised a hand. “The vessels are heading toward us. Firing missiles and lasers. Launching defensive shields.” A vibration ran through the ship. “Hull reflector screens up. Decoys launched. Defensive missiles armed.”

  “How long before we’re in Below-Space?”

  Laura continued staring at the screen. “Two minutes. Then we need to go deep. Very deep.”

  Helga shook her head. “Can’t rule out them launching nuclear charges against us. They’d have to be lucky, though.”

  Merral sat down. It was an automatic response. I don’t really know what I’m doing anymore. Luke is dead.

  It was a very long two minutes. Bursts of light flashed, the hull vibrated, and then the screens started to go gray.

  Now we are out of sight.

  For a time that Merral did not count, they descended downward into the grayness. Every so often there would be a faint rumble and the ship would give a tiny shake as somewhere a weapon exploded.

  Then there was only silence.

  Merral, who had said nothing, got up from his seat. “Everybody, I’m afraid I have to tell you that Luke is dead.”

  Then, ignoring the gasps and shocked looks, he walked over to Laura, feeling that his steps were unsteady. “Captain, I’m afraid Bannermene Gate is no longer a possibility. Let’s head to Jigralt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to be in my quarters if you need me. I want to be alone.”

  26

  The Assembly had long expected the attack on Bannermene. With the demise of the Picket Line project, the size of the fleet there had been reduced and monitoring systems had been installed to send the details of any conflict to Earth through the Gate. So when the long-awaited battle did occur, a great deal of information was transmitted before it became evident that the Assembly defenses were utterly destroyed and every ship pulverized. At that point, a scant half hour from the moment the attack had begun, the Gate was sealed shut so that nothing—whether signal or substance—could pass through it.

  The signals from Bannermene were first picked up by a converted freighter—now styled a Military Intelligence vessel—in orbit above the nearest world, Jigralt. The officer in charge of the signals examined the records with great care and increasing puzzlement. In the first phase of the battle, four large Dominion craft had been destroyed, but not by the firepower of the Assembly. Something else had obliterated them, something with weapons that the Assembly did not possess. The curiosity was that from the poor imagery available, the attacking vessel looked like another Dominion ship. Yet when the second phase of the attack began with four more Dominion ships, they had fired on it, and it seemed to have fled into Below-Space. It made very little sense.

  The officer passed on the details of the battle to his superiors on Earth. Then, as was only right for someone who was a Guard of the Lord and honored the badge he wore, he made a copy and sent it, disguised as a meditation on dedication, directly to the prebendant.

  The mysterious intruder did not long puzzle Delastro.

  D’Avanos! The prebendant got up from the table in his room in the Judean desert and began pacing. As I feared! Somehow that man has found the hidden parent vessel and has reached the Assembly.

  The implications were obvious and alarming. The potential for harm was extraordinary. Assuming he had survived—and the man had the luck of his father, the devil—he would not now be able to get through the Gate. He would have to continue on to the next world, and that would be Jigralt.

  Delastro did some calculations. At best, it would take a week. The Nativity celebrations were imminent, and although this year they were going to be muted, it was vital for him to be on Earth for them. He had speeches to give. But a quick trip out to the frontline worlds beforehand might be appropriate. He was about to make the arrangements when an unwelcome name came to mind: Eliza Majweske.

  He called K on a private line and after some generalities asked, “How is the suspect?”

  “Aah, her. She is being watched.” No emotion showed on the woman’s face.

  �
�Is there reason for alarm?”

  “She is still asking questions.”

  “I see.” Delastro rapped his fingers on the table for a moment. “I am going to be away a week, perhaps ten days. Any idea how fast her investigation is progressing?”

  “She is painstaking. She has made many inquiries that haven’t yet been answered. But, Prebendant . . .” There was a respectful pause. “I don’t understand why you are worried. You—the model of purity and dedication—are blameless.”

  He felt himself smile. “That, K, is exactly the point. I fear our great enemy is at work in this poor woman. Let me explain. Consider, for a moment, this woman’s background. She is a sentinel. Now remind me, K, what do the sentinels see as their mission?”

  “Looking out for evil. That’s always been their purpose.” K’s look showed no sign of sympathy.

  “Exactly. Now, given that mind-set, you can see she is looking for evil. I think—no, I know—that she is a very stressed woman. The war hasn’t helped. She is seeing shadows where there are none. My dear K, at this great hour of crisis, we cannot afford the slightest hint of a stain on the robes of righteousness. I fear she is capable of launching what might be a distraction, and one that would be hurtful to her.” He raised his finger in a gesture of admonition. “Maintain your watch. If she comes to you, delay her. Encourage her to see me personally. Talk about the necessity for ‘a personal confrontation.’ I will try to deal with her when I come back.”

  Then after some more general discussion, he rang off.

  For some minutes, Delastro resumed striding round the room as he considered what to do. Finally, he made a call to a high-ranking member of the Guards of the Lord, who called a contact, who in turn called an associate. The result was that Delastro soon found himself talking to someone in the Medical Records Unit. The woman—a Guard, of course—was flattered to be consulted.

  “The reason I’m calling,” Delastro said in the most ingratiating tone he could muster, “is that I need to check a medical record. It is someone very dear to me, showing very odd symptoms. I need to know whether there is a medical history before I counsel her.”

  The woman looked rather awkward. “We have a code of privacy. I really couldn’t.”