"Aye, Sir," Wolf answered. "Will you want a message to Defense Fleet Yards?" she asked.
"After the All-Ships conference," Kalinin said. "They'll have been alerted by our first message torpedo. The contingency mobilization orders in force are adequate for what needs to be done this morning." He hesitated "Are any bitransit torpedoes operational?"
"Sir, No, Sir," Swenson answered. "We could have one ready in four hours, give or take." Kalinin considered his thoughts, just before the EU contingent had arrived. Wolfe had been content to read maintenance logs. If she had given more attention to maintenance, might a torpedo have been ready now? Maintenance was an issue Wolfe didn't care about, but perhaps he should have worried about the question himself. Or perhaps he should have circumvented her by making maintenance a direct command responsibility of selected junior officers. That sort of initiative had to be handled carefully, but in the long run initiative might pay off.
"Let this be done," Kalinin answered. "Fire it through the warp at first opportunity. Let's try to see what's on the other side. And start readying more of them, in case we lose the first."
Chapter 2
"Adams observed that we study warfare so that our grandchildren may study architecture and decoration. Thanks to the wonders of modern medicine, we each have the privilege of doing both. I have studied and taught War; this the -- I am too modest to say my -- MinuteGirls can attest. I am happy to respect the taste of those of my neighbors who wish to build homes that not only are their castles but that have the same military effectiveness. I choose not to do so..."
Morbius, defending his proposed design of the Palazzo Splendoroso Morbius to the Rutland Town Planning, Building, and Fortification Board, June 2098.
THE PALAZZO SPLENDOROSO MORBIUS
RUTLAND, MASSACHUSETTS
April 19, 2174, 8:22 AM EST
"Miss Miller?" A high-pitched, quavering voice echoed across the windows of the Palazzo's primary atrium.
"Professor Morbius?" The response was a clear soprano. "I'm on the upper overlook. The house servile is complaining about the watering and growth of the vines, but I can't see anything wrong." Sandra Miller stopped her inspection of the cages that supported some of the atrium's hanging gardens. Yesterday had been her day off. The doubled hours of swimming and weight training and simulator drills had left her, if not quite stiff, at least aware that she had exercised vigorously. This morning she'd done a few hours of data organizing. This bit of a break to work out the not-quite-stiffness was entirely welcome.
"Dear, there's no need for you to be doing that. It's really very kind of you, but you're an intern, not staff, and even on a holiday like today that's not part of your duties." The slow clump of feet marked Morbius's climb up the spiral staircase toward Sandra's position.
"Professor. I like your gardens, I like looking at them, and I wouldn't want to think that your dear plants were going dry through no fault of their own," she answered sweetly.
"I see. So what did you find?" The clumpf-clumpf became a pad-pad as Morbius, breathing heavily from several flights of stairs, reached the outlook and trudged along the mezzanine to Sandra's position. "They look green. The soil?" Morbius was a short, thin man, black-haired with pointed Van Dyke beard. He carried a datapad in his left hand; as he walked, his right hand traced lightly on the guardrail.
"It seems as damp as the rest of the garden. But the sensors say it's dry," she answered as she turned to face him. Sandra Miller was of more than medium height, round faced, solidly figured, her red-brown hair cut down to short, thick curls.
They smiled at each other. "It seems to me that that section of sensors goes bad every five years," Morbius announced. "House? Maintenance record, garden sensors, my vicinity? And display?" The house servile put script on Morbius's datapad. "As I said. It's happened before. Perhaps this time the tech will be better. Fortunately the valving is limited--no more than so many pints per day -- or we'd be flooded. House. Non-emergency. Tomorrow, after the holiday, contact the support staff. Remind them of the repair record. And ask why self-repair didn't handle this." Morbius toggled his datapad. “That’s the memo to you tomorrow.”
"I'm not complaining that you're properly dressed for gardening intervention," he announced, referring to Sandra's low-cut boots, sea-green denim trousers, and blue-green-plaid shirt, "especially since you made a note on your schedule asking me, and I said 'casual' for the day's dress. Unfortunately, this thing from New Washington," he waved his datapad, "means I really needed you to be in Full Dress uniform ten minutes ago...oh, there was no sane way to predict that."
Sandra blushed deeply. "I'm sorry, Sir, I..."
"There's nothing to apologize about. Unless you have working precognition. You don't, do you? I could always use a precog to help my pitiful stock market investments. In any event, to make a long story short, your Internship duty is to play messenger. You are going to Concord. As soon as you change. Yes, I know what day it is. You are taking my aircar. My personal aircar. Yes, I know what traffic will be. The flight servile will be told I personally view this as a major emergency. And I will call Concord Air Properties while you are changing. That will get you through. These two dataslips are from Secretary of State Cornelius, who never panics -- well, perhaps if the wine did not age well--deliver them, go with the two people carrying them, and get them back here by, oh, seven this evening. You might not get a chance to do any studying, but it looks interesting. Any questions?"
"Sir?" She raised an eyebrow, mouth in a half-smile.
"What did I forget?" Morbius asked patiently.
Sandra ticked off on her fingers "Who the two people are, exactly where I find them, where we are going,... Should I worry about why I need Full Dress?" As in, she thought to herself, which hand weapon and how much ammunition?
"Oh, right. Sorry, I got ahead of myself. Your intermediate destination is The Great Hall of The Republic in New Washington, where Secretary Cornelius is staging a briefing on, I can't tell you, on a topic covered by the major loophole in the Suppression of Security Act, which you will learn about when you are en route. Yes, that loophole, the one we put there on purpose. The Secretary asked me to find my two good friends who as usual are not on the net, get them to New Washington on time--just before noon New Washington time, so you will get to watch the parade and flyover before you head off crosscountry--that's why you need my car, for transsonic--you get to listen to the briefing yourself--and bring them back here, as per the schedule on this dataslip," Morbius explained. "He knew I'd know where to find them."
"Pick up people, shuttle them about, bring them back, as per schedule. Check. Sir?" She waited for his attention. "There are only about one million people likely to be there. For whom am I looking, and how may I find them?" And what does this have to do with Full Dress rather than regular uniform? But that sort of detail he always gets right, every time.
"They will be found immediately in front of the William Baptiste Memorial. They always are for the parade. Be sure you have my card with you; you will need to use the emergency paths to get through the crowds, and the MinuteBoys are picky about keeping them free for emergencies. However, you should have no trouble finding them once the parade starts. The newsnets are really fond of occasional shots of the two of them taking salutes. Yes, my good friends Barbara and Charles. They always go to the parade," Morbius said.
"Yes, Sir! Charles. Barbara. Captain Zero. Kapitan Mors." Sandra hoped her mouth did not sag too far open. If you were a Morbius intern, you met interesting people, went to strange places, and represented Morbius wherever you went, but even for one of his interns that was a heavy guest and travel list. The list explained why the Professor said 'Full Dress'. She was about to play messenger and escort for the two founding Commanders of the Popular Army themselves, so she needed to look the part, no matter how often they claimed they had retired.
That settled the weapons question, too, she thought. Between Secretary of State Cornelius, who was in the Line of Succession,
and the two Captains, in whose defense she would not hesitate to die if need be, she would want the deadliest weapon consistent with her uniform. The nice part of Full Dress was that the somewhat impractical Phoenix shawl became the highly practical Phoenix cape, complete with optional cowl and lots of pockets for extra ammunition and hand grenades.
"So these are the dataslips for Charles and Barbara, and this slip is your briefing, including New Washington flight patterns for my car. Better get on with it," he announced.
Twenty minutes later, airborne over Sterling, Sandra let the car fly itself while she talked with Concord Air Properties. Morbius had contacted Concord. The serviles had immediately shifted her conversation up to an actual human on duty. Women's Defense Forces, noted Sandra, doubtless not officially on duty, the uniform only in honor of the day.
"Professor Morbius is such a wonderful man," the Air Properties Manager explained, "but I can't give you a landing spot I don't have. Wait. About a mile back. His Honor the Chair of the Selectboard's space--give me a moment. I know he landed with his wife." She faded off screen. Sandra knotted her fists. Morbius did not complain if you failed at the impossible, but he would remind you of things you had overlooked, things that made tasks possible. No matter how polite he was, his suggestions were always painfully embarrassing. "Taken care of. You'll have to walk in. The Chairman asked for a photo, you parked in his space. And at your convenience your autograph. If our serviles can agree on your priority, I'll have a space cleared right behind the Monument for after. Your car will take relocate orders from us, ground point to ground point?"
"Authorized," Sandra said. The car's servile agreed. "Thank you very much.”
"Dear, my grandmum was in Albany. The Professor's girls rescued her. Any time." The image dropped out. Sandra shuddered slightly at the Albany image. The Siege had been a major battle of the Incursion, 'The Second Dien Bien Phu' being mildly overstated, ignoring the detail that the Vietnamese-American who commanded the besiegers had had a great-great-grand-uncle at the first Dien Bien Phu. Christopher Giap had only gloated a bit on explaining the coincidence during the FEU surrender. For the Americans of Albany who had been detained before they could flee, the Siege had represented hunger, labor impressment, and a fair chance of death. Sandra took the moment to tap instructions to her house servile; the photo would be on her desk waiting for her autograph.
Sandra made another check of her pockets. That was silly. The House servots packed things, and never forgot. Datapad. Dataslips. The cape was weighted, so the ammunition in the lining pouches didn't change its balance. And in the other pockets? What had Morbius told the house servots to give her? Two beautiful black crystal boxes, the embossed logos being...this had to be a really serious situation, whatever it was. Her datapad was ready with a protocol reminder on handling the boxes, just in case. And for her, with a cover note "I cannot order you to wear these, but they are not inappropriate, and may resolve challenges," a case with two pins. The ruby "M" on white enamel, atop a square gold backing, marking her as his intern, was something she almost never wore. If you believed in nonhierarchical organization, you believed that you didn't pull rank. Morbius would always say that it wasn't rank, just a reason why people might expect your judgement to be sound. On went the pin. The other pin? Small, flat, black. She'd never worn the sword before, not counting ceremonies. It was certainly an interesting way to warn her about a possible future. More than once Charles' and Barbara's escort had had to earn their swords the second time.
She bit her lip and pinned it to her other collar tab. Someone might see it and complain up to the Dark Lady about her putting on airs. And she would say? She'd say that she trusted Morbius's judgement more when she didn't understand it, because that was when his unique insights into the world came into play. And she'd say that the Suppression of Security Act's loophole only arose under conditions that made the sword plausible. She paused to check her gauss pistol again. It was clean, ready, loaded, safed. What more could you ask for--except a target-rich environment? The traditional answer was the recoilless gauss pistol, the effect on the wrist of the regular gauss pistol being pointedly noticeable. That was why she did her swimming and running and weight training, in an era in which biosculpt made weight training almost obsolete.
The aircar made its final bank and started a near-vertical descent into Concord. She allowed the landing space would become apparent when the ground approached. Subway systems or no, the Patriot's Day Parade really did bring a million people to watch the parade. Traffic was horrendous. A final side-shuffle brought the car into an adequate though not large space. Some people ignored landings, allowing that serviles would almost certainly handle maneuver an aircar better than a human driver could. She let them land her, but watched the ground clearances, her hands firmly off the controls.
The engine hum died. Her shock harness folded away. As she made to stand, the driver's door retracted its gull wing to let her leave. Data pad displayed map, cleared paths for emergency vehicles, MinuteBoy check points on the paths, even a shortest route. The aircar serviles confirmed they were ready to hand off to Concord Air Properties.
The walkways were choked with people. MinuteGirl Full Dress uniform did not lend itself to steps faster than a brisk walk, but people stayed enough clear of the Phoenix cape that she could weave sideways through the masses. As she approached the Monument, it became clear that all viewing spaces were taken, and that people were following their datapads' leads off to the sides. In the end, every person would have a view, almost every space would be filled, and further progress through tight packed humanity would be impossible. There were ample lanes through which traffic could pass. They were blocked vacant with barriers and MinuteBoy sentries so that in an emergency people had a way to exit quickly.
She would need to negotiate her way through a sentry post. People might wonder why she was walking down a lane that was supposed to be entirely clear, but those lanes were her only route to the Two Captains. There was a sentry post with four MinuteBoys manning it. That seemed excessive, but potentially they had to face off small children who were not clear on the no concept.
"I'm Sandra Miller," she announced to the MinuteBoy at the post front. "I need to carry a message that cannot go by datanet to people at the William Baptiste Monument."
"I'm sorry," the MinuteBoy announced, "I am not authorized to let you pass. No exceptions."
"It's extremely urgent," she added. “Please?” She considered adding 'New Washington is invoking the loophole in the Suppression of Secrecy Act', but the kid at the gate might not yet know what the Act did.
"I'm sorry," the MinuteBoy at the post repeated, "but no exceptions actually means no exceptions, even for MinuteGirls. Those are my orders."
Sandra tugged open her cape, dropping the cowl behind her. Now its scarlet framed the turquoise of her dress uniform, incidentally letting him see the collar tabs and blue-black holster of her dress gauss pistol. She gestured open-handedly. "I'm carrying a personal message from Professor Morbius, himself," she tapped the pin, "to Captain Zero, himself, and Kapitan Mors, herself." She pulled Morbius's card from a cape pocket. Perhaps the MinuteBoy would notice her collar tabs. Perhaps he wouldn't.
"Look, I said..." The MinuteBoy was starting to lose his patience. Sandra held up her hands in front of her chest. He was a friend and ally, a fellow American, not someone you could treat like an enemy or lose your temper with.
"Chiller, Smith," announced one of his companions, "She's trying to do her task, just like we are."
"But I can't... I'm sorry, I really need to get my watch commander." Flustered, the original MinuteBoy turned to his datapad. "Post 13. Post 13. As soon as possible. MinuteGirl playing messenger wants permission to use the Emergency Lanes. Transmitting recorded conversation now."
Within two minutes, an older MinuteBoy appeared on a scooter. A nametag on one pocket read Jones-13. He asked "Smith, is there a problem? Concord makes the rules, we just enforce them." Smith pointed mutel
y at Sandra. Jones-13 took in Sandra and her uniform. Eyes went slowly from one collar tab to the other, then back again. Sandra decided his eyes had darted down, eventually moving from shirt pockets and belt to her choice of personal armament.
"I'm Sandra Miller, with Professor Morbius's messages." She waved his card. "The Professor said that this is an extreme emergency." Jones-13's eyes went again from one collar tab to the other, staring hard at the sword, then let his datapad scan Morbius's card. She was not quite annoyed to conclude that his look lower down had focused on her gauss pistol, which was a real rarity, only after it had focused on her figure. Gauss pistols often drew more notice. Weaponizing gauss technology for small hand weapons had always been a bit marginal.
"Mr. Smith, let her pass. Can I give you a ride, Miller?" he asked. She winked. "Hop on board." His scooter deployed a second seat.
She slipped behind him. "Many thanks," she said.
"I can get you close, but you may have to talk your way through a line of Junior Girl Guides. I can't help on that. The DisUnity thing," he explained. The DisUnification of Command doctrine had been one of Morbius's guiding principles for organization of the Popular Army. During the Incursion, counterintelligence did sometimes penetrate PA cells, but those penetrations gave the opposition no leverage against competing PA structures.
WILLIAM BAPTISTE MEMORIAL MONUMENT
CONCORD, MASSACHUSETTS
April 19, 2174, 10:15 AM EST
The roar of jet engines, the final trace of the antique aircraft flyover, faded into the distance. A sharp pair of ears could barely hear the low rumble of equally antique tanks rolling slowly closer.
Crowds lining the road cheered the advancing parade. By tradition almost four centuries old, the march was led by re-enactors in Colonial costume, drums clattering, fifes trilling, Massachusetts Revolutionary flag snapping stiffly in the chill spring breeze. Re-enactors wheeled at the Minuteman Statue, presented arms, and continued past the reviewing stand, receiving in turn the salutes of the Governor of the Commonwealth and the 400 members of the Great and General Court. A further hundred yards brought them to the William Baptiste Memorial, the stainless-steel statue of a boy strapped to a plank, jaws clenched in agony, eternal flame burning under him as he was roasted alive. "Remember!" read the plaque. The re-enactors made their second salute. A few more steps, and the re-enactors made their final salute, seemingly at random into the crowd. The final salute was the sharpest and longest held.
Minutegirls Page 3