“Reporting as ordered, sir,” she announced as she stepped into Colonel Gonzalez’ office, rendering a perfect hand salute.
“Have a seat, Warrant Visserman,” said the officer, pulling up a flimsy that had been sitting on his desk. “Or I should say Chief Warrant Officer Two Visserman.”
“I’m getting a promotion?”
“Some idiot thought you deserved one, based on your skill as a pilot. Lord knows it couldn’t be because of your decorum and attention to military protocol.”
“Who put me up for promotion?” asked Visserman, confused.
“I would be that idiot, Chief,” said the Colonel with a wide smile. “You’re one of the best natural pilots I’ve ever seen, and it will be a shame to lose you.”
“I got my reassignment?” asked Debra in an excited tone. “Not that you haven’t been a great commander and all.”
“You’ve gotten a reassignment to a basic flight school, Chief,” said the Colonel, his smile turning down to a frown. “I know it wasn’t what you wanted, but it’s what the service needs. We need for your skill to rub off on some new pilots, so that’s what will happen.”
“Yes, sir,” said Visserman with a sinking feeling. She could remember talking with her own instructors in basic flight school. All had talked about how a training assignment was a no way out ticket to the rear. Most of them had loved the idea that they could stay at home with families, not putting themselves at risk. The really good ones had been disappointed that they had been stuck in limbo with no way out. “When do I go?”
“Two months from now,” said Gonzalez, looking at the flimsy. “You’ll transfer through wormhole to Ruby. You’ll have four days free to do with as you please before you have to report.”
Visserman felt like the bottom had fallen out from under her as she left the Colonel’s office. Four days, she thought, wondering what she would do with them. She could go home, only she didn’t feel at home in that place. Or I could just stay in the city and see some of the sights I haven’t had time for. And drinking with my mates at night. That settled it. She would stay here and drink with her buddies, the people she felt closest to. And let they, who still had a chance at a slot at the front, to commiserate with her.
* * *
Lucille Yu sat at her desk and looked at the bank of holos that surrounded her, surveying her own personal empire. Not really hers, since she owned none of it, not even the desk she sat at. But her responsibility. Not the military part, the millions of personnel who swarmed the station, both as a duty station and a passage to elsewhere. Not the labs and weapons development workshops. Not the weapons aboard, those placed on the station for self-defense, as well as the massive constructs that sent their power across the light years to the battle fleets. Nor did she have a stake in the thousands of wormhole passenger gates that were starting to link the Empire in a way that generations past would never have imagined. Or the negative matter and antimatter production that supplemented the other industrial centers of the Empire.
No, her empire centered around the production of wormholes, her area of expertise. Over seventy percent of the station was dedicated to generating the energy needed to make those wormholes, using the rotational energy of the black hole it orbited around. The twenty-five million kilometer circumference station contained three million of the enormous generating devices that wove a sheet of electrons around the black hole and used that rotation as a giant dynamo. Pentatons of crystal matrix batteries, the most efficient way to store power outside of antimatter, were stored here, soaking up energy for each creation event. This machinery was the reason the station existed. It had taken over a hundred years to build the structure and pack it with that machinery, something the doubters had said was impossible the entire time it was being built.
And it’s mine to run, as long as I coax the most wormholes I can out of the thing, and don’t break it in the process, she thought.
One of the holos lit up, the one showing a camera view from over the top of the black hole. The distortion at the center, outlined in a ring of light from the surrounding stars bent around the event horizon, was the black hole. The ribbon of the station, glowing with a multitude of built in illuminators, seemed tiny, fragile, almost invisible against the backdrop of space. The ribbon sat a little under four million kilometers out from the center of the hole. The event horizon was about a hundred and eighty kilometers out from the singularity, and would have been invisible if not for the thick halo of light.
The inner side of the ribbon lit up with a blue light as the generators started to produce their electron beams. At ten points on the ribbon the beams combined to create much more massive lances of light that shone through space. Electrons reached down toward the event horizon at very near light speed, to a point five hundred thousand kilometers above it where a smaller ring of supermetal alloy orbited around the mass. Electron beams linked, then bent as they were spun around in the enormous electrical dynamo the system created.
For fifteen minutes the dynamo spun, building up power that was stored in the crystal matrix batteries until they were packed with energy. At that point the power was shunted into massive microwave projectors on the hull of the station that fired off their energy to the pair of wormhole generators twelve light seconds out. They pumped all of the energy in the batteries, followed by a final spike from the generator.
Lucille looked over at another holo, this one showing the interior of one of the wormhole generating satellites. Within were eight great arms, each holding something invisible in the magnetic field cups on their ends. The area around the objects glowed as a matter stream was fed into them, maintaining the mass that was slowly evaporating. Huge superconducting cables wrapped each of the arms, conducting the fierce heat coming off the objects. Micro-black holes, each massing billions of tons, more than the rest of the satellite altogether.
As energy surged through the chamber the arms moved closer together, electromagnetic fields rivalling those of a world enfolding each arm, strengthening it. The cups moved to the edge of a twenty meter circle, just barely holding the charged black holes against the gravitational force that wanted to pull them together. They maintained that range for a nanosecond, stressing the space between the holes, then pulled apart, the arms straining at first to move them, the motion speeding up until they reached a velocity of one meter per second. The area in between the holes rippled, then ripped open, the opening of a nascent wormhole forming.
Enormous graviton projectors took the energy transmitting from the Donut and beamed them as attractor particles, increasing the pull on the wormhole, holding it open as the micro-black holes moved back into their holding areas. Magnetic field generators formed a donut shaped field just outside of the hole, moving it into the wormhole opening. The graviton generators powered back, letting the wormhole start its collapse onto the negative matter now held in the magnetic field. Negative matter projected antigravity, and repelled itself, and it now held the hole open as a small frame of supermetals was moved out to catch the wormhole and hold the negative matter in another electromagnetic field. And there they had it, the opening of a new wormhole, framed and ready to go.
The same process was going on in another wormhole generating satellite sitting a thousand kilometers distant in space. Wormholes needed two openings, and both sought the nearest portal, forming the tunnel that was the connection between them. Robots entered both chambers, which were still much too hot for organic beings to enter, and would be for some hours. The wormhole ends were carried out to be boxed, then shipped to wherever they were bound. In some cases both ends would leave the system, in others only one.
What would become of the pair? They might be shipped to the Second Front, or to some other destination where it was desired that both ends be. In some cases they would become ship gates, or passenger gates. Or weapons ports to missile acceleration tubes and particle beam accelerators. Or wormhole heat sinks. That was not her domain, the decision on how to use them was the purview
of the Admiralty. Her only responsibility was to keep cranking them out, and another pair of generators were already online, the Donut starting to spin up its massive dynamos to powered up the next creation.
Lucille leaned back in her chair and let out a satisfied breath. The greatest machine that humankind, or really any other species, had ever created. Hers to control. It wasn’t invulnerable, but as protected as it was by security, sitting in the middle of a sixty-four light hour radius hyper-shadow, it was the closest thing to it.
* * *
“We’re almost ready for the next event,” said the alien technician who was manning the control board.
Dr. Ivan Smirnov nodded, then realized that not everyone in this control chamber was familiar with the human head gesture. “Let me review the numbers before your initiate,” he told the tech, his voice coming out of the translator in the alien’s native language, just as that being’s speech came out of the translation device in his.
The human scientist knew that this facility was not on the same scale as the Donut, an object he had actually toured on a scientific delegation from New Moscow. This ice moon had originally been slated to become a new supermetal production site, using the icy surface and the deeps of space far from its primary to cool the process. A thousand great fusion reactors sat on one side of the large moon, while most of the rest the surface was taken up by huge banks of crystal matrix batteries that were more efficient in the frigid temperatures. The great particle accelerators used in the creation of supermetals were quiescent, unneeded for this task.
The fusion reactors had been pushing power into the batteries for six days now, building to the peak that would be needed to create a wormhole. Above the moon was a huge satellite containing two wormhole creation chambers, set up much like the human version that Smirnov had seen during his tour. It was a makeshift production process at best, but it worked, even though one of the plants could only produce a wormhole every six days. The Cacas were trying to make up for that by converting a score of moons to wormhole production, allowing them to create up to twenty-three wormholes a week, about nine percent of human capacity. Or it would be by the time all the moons were finished. New ones would be added, but it would be more than a decade before they could even begin to produce half as many wormholes per week as the one human station made.
Smirnov glanced over at the Caca supervisor and his guards, all of whom were glaring at what they considered the lesser beings in the chamber. The lesser beings who had been responsible for all of their scientific innovations, what there was of it, for millennia.
The numbers hit the mark, and Smirnov gave the command. Thousands of kilometers of microwave projectors beamed their energy up to an equal mass of receiving antennas on the satellite, starting the process. In fifteen minutes they had a new wormhole, ready to be shipped off and put to use.
Smirnov smiled as he watched the end of the process. To everyone involved it seemed as if they now had a perfect example of one of the weapons the humans had used against them. What they didn’t know was Smirnov had programed some minor quantum variations into the hole. It would work perfectly, for a time. Eventually, a week, month or year in the future, something would go wrong with the hole, and it would collapse. He could only hope that a lot of Cacas were nearby when that happened. Or, better yet, transiting the tunnel at the time.
Chapter Two
A pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; an optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty. Winston Churchill
BORDERLANDS, NOVEMBER 12TH, 1002. D-50.
“We are well into the space of the human Empire, sir. My Lord,” said the Navigator, looking at Jasper, then the Ca’cadasan Overlord.
Four four eight three one, known for this mission as Ship Master Tom Jasper, watched in relief as they got to the point where they could start playing the role that would hopefully get them to the target. He looked back at the Master, wondering once again why they had to come on this mission, when his people could have handled it very well by themselves. He then looked at four four three seven six, known as Mary Sowell, the First Mate, as well as his mate.
It had taken them thirty-six days to come through the borderlands space in hyper IV, something they could have pushed through in a day and a half in VI. But by transiting in four, they were putting out a hyper signal that transmitted only a sixteenth of the distance that they would in the much higher dimension, while picking up the enemy at sixteen times that range. The fear had been that a human ship would still coast past them, picking up their hypersignal and jumping down to investigate what would appear to be a smuggler or infiltrator trying to sneak into their space.
Now they were in the space where an Imperial merchantman might be expected to be. Still some suspicion this close to the border, but a place where they might be able to talk themselves out of an inspection. Then again, they might not.
“What has the plot looked like?” asked the Overlord.
The Captain looked at the plot, currently set on a twenty light year radius. Their normal range of hyper VI detection was about a light year, but anything jumping would be detected for a few moments out to two and a half to three light years. Unfortunately, they would also be detected to the same range when they jumped to VI. But they would jump to VI in one step, giving the enemy only one chance to detect their translation.
“We have seen nothing for over a day, my Lord,” said the Sensor Tech.
“I believe it is safe enough,” said Jasper, looking back at the Ca’cadasan.
The male was silent for a few minutes, thinking. Jasper knew the Masters were not the fastest of thinkers, with less flexibility than his own people. He had been raised to think of the Masters as superior in all ways, physically and mentally. It soon became obvious to anyone who worked with them that they were truly the physically superior species, or at least the stronger, longer lived race. It also became obvious to anyone working around them that the Ca’cadasan were not mentally superior to most of those they ruled, especially the mentally flexible humans. The only reason they ruled such a large Empire was the luck of timing. They had advanced at a time when their neighbors weren’t to far ahead of them, and became too large to fail as they steamrolled single and small multisystem species afterwards.
“Proceed,” ordered the big male.
“Jump,” ordered Jasper a moment later. The lights dimmed for a moment as the ship put all of its power into the hyperdrive arrays, which projected a wave of gravitons to open a temporary hole between the dimensions. The ship slid smoothly through the hole from the red background dimension of hyper IV into the brighter red higher dimension of VI.
The ship coasted in VI for ten minutes, holding her entry velocity of point two light. She actually had the capability of jumping at point three light, in the same range as most of the warships of both sides. But she was playing the deception game, and anyone picking her up before or after jump would see what they wanted to see.
“No tracks,” called out the Sensor Tech. “As far as I can tell, there is nothing out there listening to us.”
Which might not mean they weren’t there. In the past, any ship listening to hyperdrive emissions could only transmit the information to other waiting ships by grav wave, detectable by the ship they were tracking. The humans had changed all that with their wormhole tech, and their other strange methods of instantaneous com. That seemed to Jasper the mentally superior species, his long lost people, and recently he had started wondering if he was serving the right side.
“Accelerate up to point eight five light,” he ordered. “One third maximum acceleration.”
The Helm nodded, then pushed forward the grabber units up to the maximum that a freighter was expected to do, about one hundred and seventy gravities. In actuality Fool’s Bane could pull five hundred and fifteen G’s, similar to most warships. But again, she was playing a game, and had to look the part.
They pushed the ship ahead for many hours, eventually getting up to point eight seven
light, slightly above the norm for merchant ships, but not outside the realm of possibility. They travelled several hours more before Jasper felt a sense of relief. They were well inside the Empire now and had not been challenged. In fact, they had seen nothing on their scans. A bit of luck, but not unexpected when military forces had so much space to cover, and most of them were congregated at the frontier they had already penetrated.
“Time to target system, forty-six days,” called out the Navigator.
Jasper nodded. When they reached the target system they would be three day’s transit from their objective. The other ship was five days ahead, since they had a much longer transit into the gravity well of the black hole. With luck they might even make it back home at the end of the mission. They had a wormhole, after all, and if the Masters gave permission they could step across twenty thousand light years in an instant. He didn’t expect that to happen, either for them to survive to that point, or for the Masters to even consider extracting them. But it didn’t hurt to stay hopeful.
* * *
CAPITULUM, JEWEL. NOVEMBER 18TH, 1002.
Angel Sergio Martinez stood on the balcony of his townhouse and looked out over the city of Capitulum, lit up like a true gem in the night. The balcony was situated a thousand meters up on the megascraper. Jewel was situated in the edge of the northern tropics of a planet slightly colder than Old Earth. It could get uncomfortable during the day, and sometimes at night, if one were not in the climate controlled confines of a building. The added altitude took a little bit of the edge off of that temperature, though sometimes the winds could get a little rough.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 11: Day of Infamy (Exodus: Empires at War.) Page 2