Infinite Stars

by Bryan Thomas Schmidt

Trevor shrugged. “Of course I did. That’s a universal shipboard security protocol. Has been since the EMPidemic of 2081.” A grotesque misnomor, but it had stuck, even though eighty percent of the problems had been caused by hacking rather than electromagnetic pulses. “Unfortunately, the most detailed security check into your background still won’t show us a sleeper virus hidden in your implants.”

  “Yeah, I heard that all the time when I was first looking for work in the Pures.”

  Souders, the communication officer, frowned uncertainly. “The Pures?”

  Thiri smirked at her. “Don’t get out of your ivory tower much, do you, sib?”

  Trevor interceded sharply. “It’s short for Purelands, Lieutenant Souders. Those parts of the globe where performance-enhancing implants and modifications are outlawed.”

  “Yeah, and where they’re not needed so much,” Thiri added with an impatient glare. “You Pures have genetic screening and optimization: hardly any worries about disease, defects, neonatal impacts on IQ. And if you’re not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so what? In the Developed World, there’s always plenty of money and resources and computing power to get ahead.

  “But where I grew up, we didn’t have any of that. Still don’t. So it’s like the captain says: you grab any advantage you can. I did well in school, had a knack for getting into places, to talk with people, see things—sometimes things I shouldn’t. So I got an ocular implant. Still working off the debt, too.”

  Cameron’s timely interruption prevented what might have extended into an uncomfortable silence. He gestured toward the mission clock. “If the Arat Kur plan on replying, they’re really taking it down to the wire. Do you think they know how hopeless their situation is?”

  As if I care. But Trevor stayed professional. “I doubt it. They couldn’t have received an actual report of their fleet’s defeat at Earth; they were already on their way to Epsilon Indi to drop off the Hkh’Rkh commerce raiders. And because that was their whole load, this ship has none of its own defensive craft in her cradles.” He folded his arms. “They can’t fight; they can only run.”

  Thiri crossed her arms. “So if they’ve been out of contact with the rest of the Arat Kur forces, how do they even know they’re in trouble? Because when they shifted back here, none of their ships were on station anymore?”

  Trevor shrugged. “That and a null signal.”

  Thiri frowned. “A null signal?”

  Souders explained. “It’s the commo equivalent of a dead-man switch. If any component of an invasion force is not heard from by a specific time, the other elements will presume it’s been lost or compromised. In this case, if the fleet which invaded our home system went silent, the other Arat Kur units were to assume that their entire campaign was a bust and to retreat immediately.”

  Cameron nodded briskly. “Unfortunately for this lot, ‘immediately’ wasn’t soon enough. Gunnery, has our railgun been reconfigured for drone launch?”

  “Yes, sir. And the drones have been rigged for high-gee acceleration.”

  As Cameron gave the order for the drone launches to begin, Thiri leaned closer. “I thought drones were already built to withstand high gees.”

  Cameron nodded. “Most of them can pull ten gees or more using their on-board engines. But the railgun will boost them a lot more during their flight up the spinal tube.”

  “How much more?”

  “We’ve recently declassified the weapon specs on the Gettysburg class cruiser, the last of which was laid down six years ago. Her spinal tube puts fifteen gees of acceleration behind drones and other deployables. This cruiser, a Heroic class, exceeds that rating.”

  “And you’re not going to tell me by how much, are you?” When Cameron didn’t respond, she turned toward Corcoran.

  Trevor shrugged. “Sorry. None of us are allowed to tell you, ma’am.”

  “Just call me Za.”

  Trevor detected the faint change in Thiri Za’s tone and posture; it was subtly more casual. And perhaps, behind that, an additional hint of receptivity to less strictly professional interactions. At another time, Corcoran might have acted on it, or at least been flattered, but now, he couldn’t care less. Actually, it was a faint annoyance, a reminder that the mere memory of Opal Patrone was vastly superior to any present realities. And would continue to be so, as far as he could tell. Trevor did not reply to Thiri Za.

  With all Valiant’s sensor drones now heading toward the enemy shift-carrier, Cameron ordered the weaponized varieties and larger missiles into the launch tube. He glanced at the mission clock above the central view screen. “The deadline has come and gone, Captain Corcoran. But I believe your OpOrd gives you discretion to extend the time in which the Arat Kur may respond.”

  Trevor Corcoran shook his head sharply. “If they were going to communicate with us, they’d have done so long ago. They’re just hoping we’ll sit on our hands until they reach their shift-point.”

  Cameron studied the navplot. “Judging from their course, they’re making for the optimal coordinates to 70 Ophiuchi. Unless they’re trying to trick us, that is.”

  Corcoran shook his head again. “They don’t need to trick us. It’s 9.32 light years to 70 Ophiuchi. They can make that hop. We can’t. And once they get there, we’ll never catch them.”

  Cameron nodded. “They’ll go to the companion system, 70 Ophiuchi B, which is uninhabited. Probably spend a week to ten days refueling and creating antimatter, and then preaccelerate for their next shift. Of course, it will take us that long just to preaccelerate and out-shift from here. And by the time we could get one hop closer to 70 Ophiuchi following the shorter links we have to use, the Arat Kur would have shifted twice again and reached their own systems.”

  Thiri looked from one captain to the other. “So we catch them here or not at all.”

  Trevor nodded.

  Souders was staring at the data readouts. “Could still be a while before we actually catch her, though. She’s making better speed than she should for her class. About 10 percent over observed maximum. Could she be equipped with auxiliary thrust modules?”

  Cameron shrugged, glanced toward Sensor Ops, “Anything unusual about her thrust characteristics?”

  “No, sir: energy and thermal signatures are consistent with her class.”

  Cameron nodded, ignored Thiri when she stepped closer to the conn. “But they could still get away and—”

  Trevor interrupted. “The Arat Kur ship is moving faster than usual because she’s light. That’s one of the reasons we were sure that she has no ships from her own integral defense squadron in her cradles.”

  Thiri frowned, as if that answer was somehow disappointing. “But when we get closer, the shift-carrier could still attack us with its own spinal weapon, right?”

  Trevor shrugged. “It could, but it won’t. The shift-carrier can’t accelerate and attack at the same time.”

  “Because of the energy it requires to power its main weapon?”

  “No, because of her architecture, which puts the business end of that weapon at her bow. So, since we’re stern-chasing her, she would have to tumble to fire her spinal weapon. And when she tumbles, her engines are pointed the wrong way: against the direction she wants to accelerate. So every second she’s aligned to shoot at us, she’s not continuing to accelerate to her shift point. Which means we gain just that much more on her.”

  “She could have other offensive options.” Thiri sounded more stubborn than self-assured.

  “Not unless she has some missiles left. And I doubt she does. She’d have launched by now, to keep us at bay while she crowds gees. No, she’s running for shift. That’s really the only option she has left, although it’s pretty hopeless.”

  “Why?”

  “Because given the boost from our railgun, our combat drones will catch up with her long before she makes it. And once our remote platforms start forcing her to take evasive action to avoid their long-range attacks and feints, she won’t be able to hold her cou
rse. Our flotilla will get into effective range within a few hours.”

  Thiri stared at the schematic of the stern-heavy Arat Kur ship, displayed on the screen directly above the navplot. “Even so, how are we going to catch them? Their engines are huge.”

  Cameron leaned forward. “Ms. Thiri Za, those big engine decks mostly house inertial fusion drives. They’re incredibly fuel-efficient and have extraordinary endurance: perfect for building preacceleration velocity over weeks or months. But fusion engines don’t make you a jackrabbit. That’s what MAP drives are for.”

  “You mean, our thrusters?”

  “I mean MAP. There are a lot of different types of thrusters. On warships, MAP—Magnetically-Accelerated Plasmoid—drives are the gold standard. They give us decent periods of two and even three gees of acceleration. On this ship, they are our primary thrust agencies. On the Arat Kur ship”—Cameron pointed at the main screen—“they are secondary to its main purpose: to preaccelerate for days or weeks at a time, preparatory to achieving shift. That hull has just enough MAP thrusters to maneuver or to get out of trouble until help arrives—which it won’t, here. Bottom line: if we push our MAPs to flank speed, we can close the gap and engage before we run out of fuel.”

  Thiri nodded. “So we’re a well-armed sprinter overtaking a marathon runner.”

  “An unarmed marathon runner,” Souders amended. “Strange that she doesn’t even have any defense drones.”

  Trevor shrugged. “My guess is that the naval reserves at Epsilon Indi made her expend whatever deployables she had left. And if she was being pursued during her withdrawal, then she wouldn’t have had enough time to scoop up any drones that survived the engagement.”

  Cameron answered with a nod of his own. “Which means she probably remote-scuttled them.”

  Trevor nodded slowly. “That would be the Arat Kur SOP. They tried mass suicide after they lost the battle around Earth, in an attempt to deny us access to their space technology. Logically, this ship would have been given the same directives.”

  Cameron leaned to take a closer look at the holoplot. “Which I suspect they’re regretting about now. The first of the recon drones should be drawing abreast of them within fifteen minutes.”

  Thiri sounded both anxious and eager. “And how close are we going to get, Captain?”

  It was Corcoran who answered. “As close as we have to.”

  Cameron smiled. “Careful, now, Captain. You’ll make my crew believe you have a death wish.”

  Trevor saw Thiri flinch—but out of discomfort, not fear. Cameron noticed, looked away to study the readouts—a bit too intently. He was clearly aware that he had said something inappropriate but had no idea what.

  Of course, not having been on Earth in at least a year, Cameron had no way to know what Thiri obviously did: that over the course of the war, Trevor had lost almost everything he loved, often in well-publicized events. His father and the first woman he’d loved in years had been killed. His sister was in an alien intensive-care cryocell, in such critical condition that human medicine was incapable of saving her. Her long-lost love—and Trevor’s friend—Caine was in pretty much the same straits.

  Souders’ brow had furrowed slightly during the awkward silence. She tried to restart the conversation. “Well, no matter the range, it should be a relatively short engagement.”

  Trevor shook his head. “Unless I’m much mistaken, it’s going to be even shorter than you think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Trevor just kept watching the screen. The lopsided, glimmering speck winked and pulsed as if distressed.

  The sensor operator explained the changes. “Target is maneuvering to get outside the pattern of the approaching drone envelope.”

  Cameron nodded. “Remote ops, move the drones to match her course. Keep the target in the center of their expanding cone.”

  “Compensating for target’s movement, sir. She’s piling on the thrust.”

  Cameron nodded approvingly. “That’s more fuel she won’t have later on. Time until our drone lasers reach effective range?”

  “Twelve minutes, sir.”

  “And to contact, for impact-weapons?”

  “Thirty-four minutes, sir.”

  The enemy shift-cruiser changed her heading again. With little difficulty, the widening cone of drones kept their formattion centered on the enemy’s trajectory, bracketing her.

  Cameron glanced at Trevor. “Captain, we’re about to commence the part of the mission where authority must transfer to the conn.”

  Trevor nodded. “Soon, now.”

  Cameron waited, sighed. “In anticipation of that transfer, I propose to sound general quarters.”

  Trevor nodded. “By all means.”

  Cameron nodded to Souders, who sent the announcement echoing through the ship in between the peals of the klaxon.

  The bridge crew perked up noticeably; the long dull hours of pursuit were coming to their inevitable denouement. Comchatter surged as stations conducted readiness checks, both of personnel and systems. Cameron nodded as the reports trickled in, informing the bridge that Valiant was indeed ready for battle. Thiri had moved forward a step. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted slightly. Trevor had seen that response before: the “reporter rush,” he had mentally nicknamed it. The journalists who found their way into the field were rarely indifferent to the action: although they might decry it in their articles, they were frequently drawn to it like addicts to a drug of choice.

  “Ten minutes to range, sir,” the sensor officer announced.

  Trevor stepped over to Souders at the Comms station. “Are the Arat Kur jamming our signals, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir. They’ve never even tried.”

  “Then please open a channel.”

  Cameron leaned forward. “Captain Corcoran, I think it’s time to start using our weapons to communicate our intentions.”

  Trevor turned to him, smiled. “Sometimes, Captain, words are weapons. The deadliest of all. Lieutenant Souders?”

  “Direct link established. Channel open, but they’re still not talking. I’m just getting a carrier wave.”

  That will do. He nodded and Souders leaned back to give him room. “This is Captain Trevor Corcoran, mission commander aboard the UCS Valiant. As you are no doubt aware, the deadline to signal your willingness to surrender has now passed. You will also observe that our drones will soon surround you and that you cannot outmaneuver or outpace them.

  “We know your ship to be without practicable defenses, and we will overtake you before you achieve your preacceleration velocity or the shift-point to 70 Ophiuchi. Any attempt to use your spinal weapon will simply shorten what remains of the pursuit. Lastly, our intelligence on your operations in this system and Epsilon Indi, along with recently captured technical data on your class of ship, indicate that you do not have enough antimatter reserves to effect out-shift prior to attaining your nominal preacceleration velocity.

  “I am therefore contacting you—as a diplomatic courtesy—to convey our intents. Having captured many of your ships during and after the Battle of Earth, we are confident in our ability to cripple, rather than destroy, your hull. To this effect, the drones that shall soon be surrounding you will systematically degrade your point-defense lasers, and eventually, your thrusters and inertial fusion drives. We will, however, decline to bring our own ships into proximity with yours, since you might still be willing and able to scuttle your vessel to destroy any that come alongside. Rather, we will conduct boarding operations via small craft.

  “If you wish to reconsider your refusal to surrender, this is your last opportunity to return our signals. Corcoran out.”

  The line was silent. And stayed so for twenty tense seconds.

  Cameron leaned back. “A good, and humane, effort, Captain, but apparently they’re not paying any attention to it. We should—”

  Trevor raised his chin slightly. “Give them another minute.”

  Thiri looked at him, on
e eyebrow raised. “What do you expect them to—?”

  “That,” Trevor interrupted, pointing at the suddenly brighter main screen.

  The glinting speck that was the Arat Kur shift carrier had abruptly blossomed into a blue-white sphere. Just before it became uncomfortably actinic, like the flame of an arc welder, the screen’s automatic filters cut in; the entire starfield faded.

  “What was that? What happened?” Thiri almost shouted.

  Cameron shook his head at the scrolling data. “They engaged their shift-drive.”

  “They’re gone?” She was stunned.

  “In a manner of speaking,” Cameron responded. “They destroyed themselves. If the rest mass energy of a ship has not been elevated sufficiently by preacceleration, the shift-drive doesn’t create an incipient event horizon: it just becomes a huge antimatter bomb. Which we just saw detonate.”

  “They destroyed themselves, just like they did at Earth,” Thiri murmured, and then looked at Trevor. “And you knew it; you knew they would.”

  Trevor shrugged. “‘Knew?’ No. Strongly suspected? Yes.”

  Souders smiled. “So, yes, sir: a very short battle after all.”

  He smiled back at her. “I think we’ve expended enough weapons—and spent enough lives—fighting the Arat Kur.”

  Thiri seemed to be getting more annoyed by the moment. “But you might have been able to capture their ship, might have won another victory against—”

  “Ms. Thiri, you were at Earth, too, so you know the bottom line of this engagement: there was no way the Arat Kur were going to surrender themselves or their ship. They are creatures of law, of duty, and have the courage of their convictions. If we had spent another few days hammering away at their ship’s defenses and then trying to cripple her drives, it would have made no difference: in the end, they would still have destroyed themselves. And if we’d disabled their drive, they could still have scuttled themselves simply by forcing their antimatter containment fields to glitch. The explosion wouldn’t have been as big, but the result would have been the same: total annihilation.”

  “So that’s it?” she almost shouted. “I came out here—travelled for months, with my cybereye in a lockbox back on Earth—to see a split-second flash and drift through our enemy’s ashes?”