Battlestations

by S. M. Stirling

  They watched the display for another few seconds; then one of the tacticians had shifted to another perspective, another battle in progress, and Tashi regained his objectivity. After another little while, Brand took over, figuring he might as well give his second a break until it was time to go and deal with the Gersons.

  He knew what the Gersons probably had in mind; just like what the Emry had just done, but on a larger scale. A destroyer rigged to overload its warp engines in the middle of an Ichton battle formation could wreak unbelievable havoc. The firepower of a destroyer, in and of itself, was formidable; but the energy contained in a destroyer’s warp drive could be made to explode almost like a small star, if it was all released at once. It was not something that could be done by remote control; but it could be done by a willing crew, determined to settle at least a small part of the debt incurred by the enemy on a world many light-years away. But the Gersons were the last of their race. Not only that, destroyers were in short supply.

  He ran battles for another three hours, by which time he was ready to let Tashi take over again. He was beginning to be concerned as to why he had not yet heard from Tucker about the Gersons. He hoped Maggie had not underestimated the effect of the knockout gas; the Gersons were aliens, after all. He had retreated to his ready room and was just preparing to call Security and get an update when the speaker twittered on his intercom. The sound startled him, for he had been just about to press his thumb to the button. He pushed the Receive button instead.

  “Brand here.”

  “Anton, it’s Maggie,” said a familiar voice. “Would you like to come down to the ward room? I think we may have worked out a compromise solution to your problem.”

  “What compromise?” he replied. “What problem? They’re the last of their race, Maggie. I can’t let them go on a suicide mission, even if I could spare a ship.”

  “Just come to the ward room,” she said. “They’ve gotten over their mad about the gas. But they’ve got some interesting arguments. Out.”

  He did up the collar of his tunic to reinforce an appearance of authority, told Tashi where he would be, and headed for the ward room. Two of Tucker’s security men were standing guard outside, and came to attention as he approached.

  “No one’s armed except you, Commander,” one of the men said, just before he activated the control that made the door retract.

  They were standing around a small conference table over to one side of the room, Tucker and Maggie flanking the chair reserved for him. A slight, balding man in Fleet uniform sat to Tucker’s left, his head resting on one hand, and four of the bearlike Gersons occupied the other end of the table, one of them a female. Gerson males towered over most humans by nearly a head, but the females were more delicately boned and rarely came past Brand’s shoulder. Brand thought he recognized this particular one: Joli, Hooth’s mate. It was certainly Hooth at the other end of the table: a glossy, black-furred Gerson obviously in his prime, proud and impressive.

  All eyes turned in Brand’s direction as he entered the room. Tucker looked very grim, Maggie more wistfully expectant. The human tech raised his head but did not stand, probably nursing the grandfather of all hangovers from the knockout gas, though all of the Gersons seemed fine. As Brand sat between Tucker and Maggie and everyone else also sat, he touched the Translator button on his collar to activate it.

  “Hoidah, Hooth, Gersonu,” he said, which totally exhausted his command of the Gersons’ language.

  Hooth lifted his sleek muzzle in what might have been an expression of disbelief in a human. Brand suspected it had something to do with his accent, but the other Gersons’ great bear-jaws parted in what he imagined were grins, or at least small smiles, pleased that he had made the effort. His translator’s flat, uninflected voice whispered, Greetings, Hooth, People of Gerson. The Gersons were adjusting little speaker buttons in their rounded, furry ears, their black shoe-button eyes darting back and forth among themselves.

  “Commander Brand,” Hooth said. “I offer friendship.” What he actually said sounded like a series of growls and whines, but the translator gave him an electronic basso voice with a trace of a Germanic accent.

  “And I offer friendship to the Gersons,” Brand acknowledged as he turned his attention to the human specialist. “And you are?”

  “Spec-5 Max Faber, Commander,” the little man said. “Ah—sorry about the little contretemps down on Green deck. The—ah—Gersons wanted me to turn over the Prince Buthelezi and destruct-rig it.”

  “So I understand.” Brand turned his attention back to Hooth. “Would you mind telling me exactly what you proposed to do with a destruct-rigged destroyer, Hooth?”

  “We want to take it into the center of the Ichton fleet,” Hooth’s translated voice said. “Since we would not be planning to come out again, we can divert all energy to the shields until we are very close to a mother ship, using the ship’s missiles and lasers to keep the enemy at bay as we go. When we overload the warp engines, the explosion will destroy many Ichton ships.”

  Brand leaned back in his chair. “I can’t let you do it, Hooth. Aside from the fact that I haven’t got any extra destroyers to intentionally blow up, you’re the last of your race. I won’t be a party to genocide.”

  Hooth looked away for a moment, exchanging a poignant glance with his mate, then back at Brand.

  “Commander, we Gersons have loved life as well as any other sentient creature. But the Ichtons have destroyed our world. They have destroyed our race. Now they will destroy the Emry and perhaps many other races, if they are not stopped. If we can prevent the destruction of even one other race, then perhaps our own obliteration will not have been for nothing.”

  Brand glanced at the other three Gersons, especially at the female, with one pawlike hand laid protectively over her stomach, then back at Hooth.

  “Hooth, this is a noble thing you ask to do, but I can’t allow it. If you go like this, you finish what the Ichtons started.”

  “If we stay, the same thing is accomplished,” Hooth replied. “And yet—” He glanced at Maggie. “Commander, we are but eighty-four individuals remaining. Only twenty-six are females. Three of those are past breeding age. But—” He glanced uneasily at Maggie again. “I cannot explain, Doctor.”

  Maggie nodded, turning back to Brand. “Theoretically, we have the medical technology to possibly reestablish the Gerson race, Commander. With a pool of only twenty-three breeding females, it won’t be easy or fast—but it won’t happen at all, if we lose this war.

  “So what I’m proposing is a way to give the Gerson race their best chance of survival, and still allow Hooth and some of his people to make a more direct contribution to the war effort. If we can preserve the full gene pool from all the remaining Gersons, a future in vitro fertilization program might be possible. To even have a chance of starting it, we’d need to collect and freeze sperm donations from all the males who elect to go on the mission Hooth is proposing. Needless to say, none of the females could go. Even then, there’s no guarantee that we’ll ever be given the opportunity to try the in vitro project. But at least it’s a chance.”

  Brand was shaking his head by the time she finished. “Maggie, this is crazy,” he said. “Oh, I know enough about in vitro fertilization to know that it should be theoretically possible to reestablish a race from such a small sample, but—” He shook his head again. “It still doesn’t justify sending a shipload of Gerson males to their deaths. I’ve got enough to worry about without that on my conscience. I may have to commit the Hawking to battle—and that still might not be enough to win.”

  “Defeatist talk, Anton,” Maggie said.

  And Hooth said, “If the allies lost the Battle of Emry, and the Gersons had not given fully of their efforts, we would always hold ourselves partially responsible for the annihilation of another race besides our own. And if the Alliance does lose this battle, and eventually the war, it will not matter what any of us do today. You have seen the swath of destructio
n the Ichtons leave in their wake. If the Ichtons are not stopped, they will eventually reach the home worlds of the Alliance itself.”

  Brand sighed, knowing that in this last, at least, the Gerson was right; and knowing that he had no choice but to grant the request of these gallant beings who were willing to put everything on the line to stop an enemy that annihilated whole races. Even if he couldn’t spare a destroyer. He glanced at Faber.

  “What about it, Mr. Faber? If I did allow what the Gersons ask, could it really make that much difference?”

  Faber nodded. “Oh, yes. Depending on how deeply they were able to penetrate the Ichton fleet, they could do an enormous amount of damage. They might take out two, maybe three mother ships, and who knows how many escorts and even light cruisers. Furthermore, they could open a breach in the Ichton line to give us the opportunity for follow through. It could be the best bet we’ve got to break the impasse.”

  “Could, Mr. Faber?” Brand asked. “Or would?”

  Faber shrugged and shook his head. “It’s just too close to call, Commander.”

  Brand pursed his lips and let out a low whistle, then glanced uncomfortably at the waiting Hooth.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “I can’t say I’m happy about this. But if you’re determined to do it, I can’t deny the possible value to the Alliance. I shall miss your courage, Hooth—yours and all your people.”

  Hooth inclined his shaggy bear-head.

  “It is easy enough to be brave going into battle, knowing you will die,” he said, slowly reaching across to take his mate’s hand. “I think perhaps it is harder to live, to stay behind and one day become the mother of the race.”

  “No!” Joli said fiercely. “I will not let you go without me. This right I claim, who have borne you eight healthy cubs but have not the will to live without you.”

  “Hush, we will speak of this later,” Hooth said. “Commander Brand, I apologize for my mate’s impetuous words. I ask that you make all necessary arrangements as soon as possible, for I know that this battle weighs heavily upon you, and wondering whether the Hawking itself must eventually be called into battle. Dr. Conroy, we will go to my people now, to explain what is required.”

  “She’ll join you in a few minutes,” Brand said, staying Maggie with a gesture as Hooth and his companions rose. “Mr. Tucker, why don’t you show them where to go?”

  “Med Blue, Tuck,” Maggie said, sitting back down.

  When they had gone, Brand glanced at Faber. “How long will it take to rig the ship?”

  “Four to six hours. You really want me to do it?”

  Brand nodded. “I have to let them try it. It really could make the difference in the war. Do we have a choice of destroyers?”

  Faber shook his head. “The others are out on patrol. I’d have picked the General Schwartzkopf—she’s already taken a lot of battle damage—but the Prince Buthelezi is what’s available. A pity, because she’s the best of the lot.”

  “Well, perhaps that’s what they need, to give them the best chance to make their sacrifice count for something. Make sure they have a full complement of missiles, everything they can possibly throw at the Ichtons on their way in. Do the Gersons have the technical ability to operate the ship at full efficiency?”

  “Well, it isn’t what they’re used to, but I can jury-rig something, simplify some of the controls. That’s part of what will take a while. She’s already armed, though. It’s mainly a matter of disengaging the fail-safes and rigging so that the warp drive will blow when Hooth is ready, and not before. When it does blow, we’d better be farther out than we are now, and warn any other of our vessels likely to be in close.”

  “You’d better get on it, then.”

  When Faber had gone, Brand glanced at Maggie.

  “I might have known you’d come up with something like this,” he said. “Will it really work?”

  She shrugged. “Given ideal conditions and some peace, it might,” she said. “Meanwhile, if Hooth and his crew are determined to make this gesture—which could well make the major difference we’ve been praying for—they’ve also done everything they could to ensure the survival of their race. Their genetic heritage survives, even if the individuals don’t—at least so long as the Hawking survives. And if they are to end here—well, I think it means a lot to them to be able to do something, as a final statement of their race. It isn’t a terrible memorial, you know. Here died the last of the Gerson race, who offered up their lives to buy the survival of the Emry and all other races who otherwise might have fallen to Ichton oppression.”

  “Yeah,” Brand whispered. “ ‘Dulce er decorum est, pro patria mori.’ ”

  “No, ‘Greater love hath no man than this: that he lay down his life for his friends,’ ” Maggie said. “That’s a lot closer to the Gerson philosophy, regardless of the fact that they’d never heard of Christianity until the Ichtons had nearly wiped them out.”

  “What about Hooth’s mate—Joli, is it?”

  “What about her?”

  “Will he let her go? I should think she’s still of breeding age.”

  “Oh, she is. We’ve already taken specimens from her and from Hooth. We had to make certain that the in vitro procedure would work as well for Gersons as it does for humans.”

  “Does it?”

  She grinned. “I’m happy to report that we have several dozen Hooth and Joli zygotes tucked away in our freezers, and we’ll hit him up for another donation for the Gerson sperm bank after we’ve done everybody else who’s going. We decided to go ahead and take all of Joli’s eggs while we were at it, but she can still be a surrogate mother when the time comes.”

  “Not if she goes with Hooth.”

  “Oh, she isn’t going.”

  “She thinks she is.”

  Maggie smiled. ”Hooth says she isn’t. I had to promise him that I’d make certain she didn’t, or he wouldn’t agree to any of the rest.”

  “God, what a tangled web, Maggie.”

  “Survival, Anton. It’s the strongest instinct there is, no matter what the species.” She patted his arm and rose. “But I’d better get back to the lab and supervise. I have to say that the thought of a room full of giant teddy bears—well, let’s just say that it isn’t exactly the kind of family practice I used to have. Still, it beats emergency trauma.”

  Brand managed to restrain a grin until she had left the room, but his mirth had totally died away by the time he called Tashi and two of the gunnery officers to the ward room to brief them on the plan that was taking shape in his mind.

  “I’m trying to avoid committing the Hawking, as you know, but we may not have that option,” he said when he had finished telling them what the Gersons wanted to do. “Sacrificing the Buthelezi may give us the edge we need. It isn’t the sort of thing I could ask anyone to do, but since the Gersons have not only volunteered but practically insisted, it behooves us to make the most of what it will cost them.”

  The mood was sober in the little ward room, and one of the gunnery officers tapped a finger on the tabletop in agitation.

  “It’s a big gamble,” she said. “If Hooth can get the Buthelezi in close enough to waste a mother ship or two, that’s only to the good, but it’s hard to predict how the Ichtons would react to destruction on that scale. Their usual pattern is to swarm to the rescue of wounded egg ships, and not pay much attention to anything else. I’m not sure they really understand the idea of vengeance. But if we wreak enough destruction among the mother ships—”

  “Yeah,” said the other gunnery officer. “They might just pull out, flatten what’s left of the planet, and move out for their next destination—cut their losses. That gets them out of here, but bad luck for the Emry.”

  “How close could we get, if I wanted to piggyback the Buthelezi in, give it a head start?” Brand asked.

  The two gunners exchanged dubious looks.

  “Big risk, Commander,” said the woman. “Emerging from warp in occupied space could
be disaster for us and them. On the other hand, a mere close encounter could simply disrupt the drives of nearby smaller Ichton escorts. I presume you’d warp in and out as quickly as possible—unless you’re thinking to do with the Hawking what the Gersons intend with the Buthelezi.”

  “I didn’t have it in mind to take us on a suicide run,” Brand said sourly. “But if the ship didn’t have to carry anything but missiles and could overcharge all the turrets because they didn’t need to conserve fuel, one ship might make a difference. How long would we have to be in close, to safely disgorge the Buthelezi, give it time to make distance, and get us out of there?”

  The male gunner cocked his head. “Five minutes? Eight, at the outside. Our shields will hold for that long against anything short of a dreadnought, and surprise will be on our side. The last thing they’ll be expecting is to have the Hawking suddenly pop into normal space right in the middle of their fleet. But even if our shields protect us from most of what they could throw at us, they could do a lot of damage. As we have already seen, they wouldn’t hesitate to ram us. The cost could be high.”

  They continued discussing options for another quarter hour, after which Brand gave them his decision and then retired to get some sleep. The Gersons’ farewell appearance was nothing he intended to entrust to anyone else aboard the Hawking. It was a privilege as well as a burden of command. He slept badly, and woke to the sight of Maggie perching on the foot of his recliner, inspecting him with a physician’s eye.

  “Howdy, Skipper,” she said quietly. “The Gersons tell me it’s a good day for a battle.”

  He let out a sigh and closed his eyes briefly, massaging the bridge of his nose to clear the cobwebs from his brain.

  “Is it time?” he asked.

  “Just about,” she said. “The Meds have done their part. The ship is rigged, and the tech staff are briefing the Gerson crew.” For just an instant her professional demeanor slipped. “Oh, Anton, they’re so personable, so quick and eager to learn. I hate to see us lose them.”