Starfarer's Dream (Kinsella Universe Book 4)

by Gina Marie Wylie

  “Which is why we have a clever scenario: we aren’t going to give them any time to think after that. None.”

  David spoke up. “I say this every time, so don’t take it personally. The computer is something you’ve all worked with. It feels quite free to inject a little ‘realism’ into events. You may have malfs; your breakouts may or may not be exactly on the tick, and you may not be exactly where you should be. You’ve done this before -- it’s a slam dunk. Move where you are supposed to be, do what you are supposed to do.

  “Now, go make it happen!”

  David sat at the screen, noted where he came out from High Fan. His position was more or less nominal and certainly good enough for government work. Then came the five minute freeze. This time was intended to give their opponents a chance to get out of their dinner chairs and into their command chairs. Then they would have to get into the command mind set. All in a time frame not much longer than a battle stations alert would normally take. Not much more. He checked the range, prepped his first three missiles, and put his finger on the launch key.

  This was also the time for the attackers to get eaten up by their fears and doubts. He’d gone to a Labor Day Alert Weekend once, three years ago. There were three guaranteed no-notice alerts a day -- giving and receiving. It had been a busy three days. There had been no sleep the first night, no action at all the second night, followed by 36 continual hours of alerts.

  Now this scenario came alive and David pushed the firing key. Fleet Command and, no doubt Kriegspiel, gave you leadership tests, before, during and after exercises. These were graded and the results went into the database along with everything else you did. Your simulated crew reacted in ways similar to what a real crew would have reacted in the same situations. And not just major things -- you were graded right down to how you would greet a crew member you met on leave.

  David’s missiles reached out, along with those of the other two ships. They touched the habitat and it blew out in awful flame. Two seconds later another salvo of missiles touched it and reduced the shattered hulk to nothing but plasma.

  “Three Group this is Unit Seven, jump to next target,” David spoke into his comm link. The others dutifully flitted.

  What he was doing was a little risky. In theory some or all of the six warships outside the fan limit might notice that three ships had dropped against this habitat and that later that only two had jumped away, and could then deduce the stay-behind was the Command and Control ship and jump against it. Most likely it would be an item on Dennis Booth’s after action summary -- something they hadn’t noticed in the confusion.

  The hard truth was that David was the commander in fact, and that the plan to reduce a planet with a half billion people on it to cinders was his. Yet, it wasn’t cowardice on his part to hold back. Someone had to watch the big picture and that someone needed to be as free as possible of distractions jiggling his elbow -- like shooting and being shot at. A risk, but at worst, a one-to-one risk. He needed to be able to coordinate the attack.

  Missiles started hitting the planet, others were hitting the base. Ships blew up; none of them his. He was surprised that only five of the six Fleet ships out system interposed themselves between the missile attack and the planet. The sixth ship jumped to support the base. Or perhaps it had been trying to find a safe haven.

  It hadn’t been safe. The ship dropped in front of the attackers and lasted less than a minute. David glanced at the mission clock; they were seven minutes into the attack. The base was badly damaged, the planet was badly damaged and Wu had switched to the orbital defenses. The eight active orbital bases were half gone; a minute later, they were all gone. Two ships in the outer system, civilians, went to High Fan. Ignore them -- any help they could bring was weeks away. This was war -- it was impossible to expect the other side not to notice.

  Then he was down alongside Division One, Wu fighting her seven surviving ships against four defenders; the arrival of Toby’s division simply obliterated them. A few minutes later the twenty-seven surviving attackers withdrew. One ship of an element, not under the direct control of one of the players, had emerged near one of the orbital bases and had been destroyed. Another ship, commanded by one of the human commanders had run to avoid destruction. David would have fled as well.

  Dennis Booth received their attack plans for what was left in the system and promptly stipulated them. There was no longer anything or anyone that could stop them. Instead of a two hour action, like David had expected, it was done in thirty minutes.

  “This is Dennis Booth. You may all take a biological break. I will see everyone in ten minutes in Briefing A.”

  David stood and left his cube. Not far away, he saw Bethany exit hers.

  “He doesn’t sound happy,” David commented to her. He was feeling weird. Jazzed, but drained. Still on an adrenaline high, but profoundly depressed at the same time.

  “I seriously doubt if it’s going to be us getting purple rockets,” Bethany said positively. She might have sounded positive, but she looked as pale as David thought he was.

  David had to agree with her comment. They weren’t going to be looking at warnings for failure to accomplish their mission.

  When they assembled, Dennis Booth stood in front of the room. There were about forty-five people present. The number surprised David. Shouldn’t the odds have been even? Not three to one against the attackers?

  “All of you are aware that neither Fleet Command nor Kriegspiel are just a teenage computer jockey’s ideas of excitement -- that they have a real reason, a real purpose. Most of you are also aware that Fleet has an active say in scenarios and details. We’ve tried to maximize the first and minimize the second. However even Fleet has good ideas now and then; the idea of an alien invasion scenario was supposed to be just that.

  “I trolled this idea in front of my daughter; then again, in front of David Zinder. I should have been less obvious. My first thought, as the attack developed, was that at long last Earth had sent the shill through the system that I’ve been expecting since I became Grand Admiral of the Rim, eighteen years ago. I was sure Fleet was going to send someone to knock me silly, crow about how important professionals are to the effort...”

  Dennis Booth laughed. He nodded to someone in the back of the room and David turned and saw his father was present. Uh oh! And, standing next to his father was Lieutenant Roeser.

  “Well, that never happened -- this happened instead. Except David Zinder has an iron-clad alibi: his age. Evan Carlson told me he regretted losing Zinder to the Rim, because, he told me, that one day David Zinder would take his place and that Fleet Command, even more than Kriegspiel, needs a dirty-foot at the helm.”

  He drew himself up. “I offer no excuse. It never occurred to me that Carlson was telling the truth: that someone able to replace him might not be a shill.”

  “We were, White Force, not just a little whipped; we were destroyed.

  “Now, let me say some things that aren’t generally known. Grand Admirals know about what’s going on -- like when someone has picked a scenario. Like a surprise attack is coming. There was nothing I could do, except think that my daughter had taken leave of her senses; I’d thought I’d noted that the other day in the boarding tube.

  “Nope!

  “I thought that such a spur of the moment assault would be a feeble, ad-hoc thing and that we would have little difficulty beating it back. We are supposed to have a 3:2 advantage on defense. A little less than three minutes after the scenario began, I personally was space gas. I got to watch my people respond to catastrophe. Mostly, they were heroic. Absolutely, their heroism didn’t matter.

  “We made so many mistakes that I can’t begin to describe them, much less count them. And, if I’d survived in command, we’d have made them anyway.

  “The only rational course for ships out system, given this particular attack, was to attempt to interpose themselves or flee. The optimum choice was to flee; the imperative was to interpose. Given time t
o think about what to do was obviously expected. For the life of me, even if I’d been given time to think about it, as a commander, looking at the deaths of so many people, I’d have done just what my captains did... even if the smart move would have been to abandon the planet.”

  That rocked David. Abandon the planet? Just run away? If he’d been tasked as a defender, he would have died in that defense. Period. End of story.

  Dennis Booth went on. “The orbital defense stations had a few minutes to react, without being attacked. They saw the nature of the attack on the planet and not unreasonably, attempted to do what they could to defeat it. About the time they did that, the attack shifted to them and they were toast.”

  He stopped, looked around. “It’s in David Zinder’s notes. Expect orbital stations to take so long to come ready; they would take so long to decipher the attack, and then they would defend the planet... attack them at tick such and so. His people did. So did those of you on the orbital platforms. So would have I.

  “Ships. Only one ship managed to cut loose from the base. It was noted and destroyed by the attackers before it got far enough away to jump. Captain Bjarnison jumped his ship to support the base... that wasn’t expected. If any of the ships had gotten away from the base, maybe that would have produced something, but no one did. The Black Force attackers simply reacted to his presence and blew him away.

  “The one ship we got?” He shrugged. “An accident. It was too close to one of the orbital defense stations, and they managed a full salvo against it. Of course, the ship had salvoed against them as well. The station was destroyed. The other Black Force ship we didn’t get, but removed from combat, when we made their environment too hot.

  “Unplanned events happen in combat.” He waved at David. “Zinder had alternate routes plotted. He had alternate objectives; he had reserves ready, under orders, to look for such and such a situation, then jump against it. We proved singularly ineffective.”

  He stopped, looked around. “Captain Wu, please stand up.” The one young woman stood up.

  “As Grand Admiral of the Rim, I know things. I know about you, as my daughter and young Zinder do not. You were born on Tenabra. A proper Rim Runner, no matter what anyone says. Of all of us, you personally know what happens when the Fleet fails in its basic mission.

  “Fleet didn’t completely fail at Tenabra, but we came close. Now, you’re out here, killing time until you are old enough to matriculate at one of the Academies. As is my daughter, as is Mr. Zinder. As are several others.”

  He paused and looked around. The room was silent. “I single out Wu for the simple reason that she took the orders she was given; orders I pray to God, no human being ever receives. After that, she did her best. And she expected the same from her people.

  “This was a sim -- just practice. But we absolutely must make it as realistic as it can be or it isn’t any good. The more real, the more effect it will have. We have learned that no matter how clever programmers are, they cannot devise a strategic computer program. Something discrete, finite... like chess, go, checkers... yes, they can do that. But attempts to bring real strategy to a computer fail. Only people can do that. And so we have scenarios like this one. And we have to make them realistic.

  “Admirals Zinder and Booth had no idea that Wu is the only person here who’s actually seen what a planet looks like, before, during and after its destruction. We rescued nearly everyone at Tenabra, but it was a very close run thing. Very close. You did very well, Captain Wu.”

  He stood looking at the front of the room, saying nothing for a minute, two minutes. “Everyone below division commander is excused; I have declared a forty-eight hour scenario holiday. Practice, but nothing real. The next scenario will be like this one; it will however, not be randomly generated. A war scenario, a follow-on to this one.

  “As I will frequently tell you between now and then -- wars are not fought like the scenarios most of us are used to. Nice little set piece engagements, where both sides have more than adequate time to plan. You may or may not have that time. Time is the greatest luxury a combat commander has and you are going to be combat commanders for the duration of this voyage.”

  People stood and exited, eventually there were ten remaining. David was nervous when he saw his father was still present. Never before had has father taken very much interest in his activities with Fleet Command. The rule had been that it could not have any effect on his grades. Since David had been number one in every class he had ever taken and that never changed, his father had had no grounds for complaint.

  Dennis Booth nodded at Wu. “I have logged your promotion to captain, effective the moment we leave High Fan at New Texas.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I only wish I could reward Mr. Zinder or my daughter in such a fashion; alas, they simply did their jobs. Solid marks, of course.” He contemplated the room. “Everyone will soon know that the Fleet has decided that for a while, we’re going to be running war scenarios.

  “All of you here are tasked to write up individual evaluations of the concept. Suggestions, recommendations; what have you. One week from today, I want those reports.”

  Someone raised a hand. One of the White Force Division commanders. “Sir, when will we have the White Force debrief?”

  Dennis Booth shrugged. “1900 hours tomorrow; I see Black Force already has that time pegged as well. I think, an hour. After that we’ll just be depressing ourselves.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the man subsided.

  David looked at Bethany. They had a debrief time scheduled? And he didn’t known about it? Planning. He caught Bethany’s eye, and licked his thumb, made a one-for-you gesture. No expression showed on her face, before or after.

  The meeting concluded and Bethany and her father vanished.

  David walked with his father back to their quarters. David grew nervous, when his father didn’t speak. Only at the door to their compartments did his father put his hand on the latch, and then stopped and turned to David.

  “The ship will be abuzz with rumors about how badly Black Force trounced White. This isn’t exactly like old time sports scores, but close. Your mother, David, would not understand what you did. In your shoes, I would be noncommittal if she asks you anything as to the particulars.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I knew about this Fleet Command stuff -- at least I thought I did. Dennis Booth talked to me a little earlier today. Now, I’m not so sure I understand.

  “He was candid with me about it. Work is work; the job is the job. When he leaves the job though, he has another hat. He is quite proud of the fact that his construction crews average job completions at 88% of estimated time and at 93% of estimated budget.” His father shook his head.

  “David, you simply have no idea. Those numbers... well, let’s just say crews that come in on time and on budget are rare. Below? Consistently?” He sighed. “That’s not just rare, but nonexistent.” Another pause, “Dennis Booth says that it is his intention to see that you get into one of the Fleet Academies, one way or the other, whatever it takes and that he’s not the only one who will be seeing to it. That it will happen. I’m not sure what I’m going to tell your mother about this.”

  “Yes, sir.” David was at a total loss for words; his father sounded like David’s fondest dream was his worst nightmare. And that it was worse than that for his mother. Hadn’t David made it very clear for a half dozen years that this was what he wanted, what he was working towards? That he would settle for nothing less?

  Dennis Booth had said he’d talked to Admiral Carlson about David. Had Admiral Carlson said the same thing to Dennis Booth that he’d told David? That he could count on an Academy slot? It was, David thought, all very confusing.

  61

  Starfarer’s Dream

  Chapter 4 -- Why Am I Alive and Everyone Else is Dead?

  I

  Consciousness, when it returned for Terry Morrison, was painful. His whole body hurt
. His head felt like it was twice its normal size; he was sick to his stomach. It seemed like every square inch of his body had been dipped in hot oil.

  Even so, his brain was screaming over and over: I made it! I made it! I’m alive! I’m alive!

  His mental processes were stuck in low gear, but the realization of personal survival blazed through the fog, brightening his mental landscape in seconds. His eyes were glued shut.

  From a place not far away, something would click mechanically every few seconds; there was an electronic set of chirps and beeps as well.

  He tried to move his hands to clear his eyes and felt soft resistance when he tried to move them. Tears of frustration welled up, doing what he’d not been able to do with his hands.

  Terry managed to turn his head. He was in a bed; obviously the sick bay or a hospital. Electronic gadgets were ranked along a shelf a meter or so away. He looked at them with professional interest: nothing seemed to be in the red.

  A voice came from behind Terry. “Are you awake, Ensign Morrison?” The accented voice was male and professional.

  With an effort Terry managed to rotate his head 180 degrees; it wasn’t easy.

  “Hello, sir,” the speaker said when Terry’s eyes were on him. He was young, black, very tall and thin, wearing the red shipsuit of a medic and spoke with the rhythmic cadences of the Caribbean. “Can you talk?” the medic asked.

  “Thank you,” were the first words from Terry’s lips. His voice was a harsh rasp; his tongue as dry as the hottest desert.

  The man smiled, but shook his head. “We also serve who stand and watch the monitors and add the odd bit to your drips.”

  Now Terry wasn’t sure if the man’s accent was British or Caribbean. The distraction served though, to help him focus.

  “Thank you, anyway.” Terry’s lips were dry; it was hard to talk.