Fleet Elements

by Walter Jon Williams

  To Sula’s surprise, the first item on the agenda was not the attack on the Fleet dockyard, but something far more ominous. “We’ve been monitoring enemy news broadcasts,” Michi said. “And currently the news readers are boasting of an antipartisan operation on Chijimo.”

  “Partisan?” someone said. “We have partisans on Chijimo?”

  “According to the news readers,” Michi said, “we do.” She looked more drawn and jaundiced than ever, the whites of her eyes now pale yellow and surrounded by reddened lids.

  Terrans in the Kalpana and Brake districts of Chijimo’s capital had supposedly attacked government workers and other loyal citizens, and now police and what were called “volunteers” had surrounded the districts and were going through them house by house to root out subversives. Despite what was called “desperate resistance,” progress was stated to be good. Video showed Terran corpses lying on rubble, huddled civilians being marched off, and the news reader promised interrogation for all and execution for those deemed guilty.

  “This may set a pattern for future actions,” Michi said. “A general purging of Terran neighborhoods.”

  Paivo Kangas spoke up. He had been with his wounded brother, Ranssu, in the hospital since the attack, and he sagged in his chair from weariness.

  “I was on Chijimo with the Home Fleet during the war,” he said. “I’ve stayed in Kalpana. It’s a rich district with beautiful views of the river. Apartments there can go for twenty thousand or more. Brake is farther up the river and middle class, but it’s still desirable real estate.”

  “Do we have any estimate of the population?”

  “The capital’s urban area holds about six million. So figure that at least a million of them are Terrans, though of course they’re not all in those two districts.”

  Naaz Vijana’s bearing was the opposite of Paivo’s—even though he’d been fighting the previous day and presumably spent the intervening hours bossing the constabulary and setting in motion some kind of investigation, his activities seemed only to have stimulated him. His black eyes burned with savage intensity, and his words came in a rush.

  “My lord, are you saying that this is a naked attempt to seize valuable property under the cover of suppressing rebellion?”

  Paivo’s lips twisted into a mirthless smile. “Of course.”

  It’s the new fashion, Sula thought. Vijana had started it himself, when he and Lord Mehrang had killed most of the Yormaks and opened their land for settlement.

  “Well then,” Vijana said, “we have to make sure the enemy get nothing but rubble for their pains.”

  “I agree,” Sula said. “This demands retaliation.”

  Everyone in the room knew what retaliation meant: missiles with antimatter warheads accelerated to relativistic speeds to race to Chijimo ahead of any warning, then plunging through the atmosphere to strike their targets. They were next to impossible to shoot down, the massive release of radiation would kill tens of thousands in an urban environment, and if the missiles were tungsten-jacketed, the resulting fireballs would set whole districts aflame.

  “This has to be done carefully,” Michi said. “Two can play at this game.”

  Once unstoppable relativistic missiles were targeted at planets, or at the antimatter-generation rings, billions could die, maybe even tens of billions. An exchange could become a war of annihilation, and that was to be avoided at all costs.

  “We should make it clear that this is a specific response to a specific outrage,” said Terza Chen.

  “And we should target those trying to profit from this specific outrage,” said Roland. “If Chijimo has an equivalent to Zanshaa High City, it should go up in flames, along with the governor.”

  Vijana was scrolling through something on his sleeve display. “Lady Michi, I’d be very pleased to help choose the targets. I assume demographic data for Chijimo is available . . . ?”

  Michi sighed. “Captain Vijana, you are so appointed, along with Captain Haz.” She turned to Terza. “Lady Terza, if you would assist these officers with, ah, the political aspect.”

  “Of course, Lady Fleetcom.”

  Michi turned her gaze upward to the unfinished ceiling, the tags hanging from the tangle of pipes, the frame for the ceiling that had yet to be installed. She appeared to be steeling herself for further effort. “As for that affair yesterday,” she said, “I’d like to thank Captains Sula, Haz, Vijana, and the Kangas brothers for their part in suppressing the enemy attack. But now we have to decide what information we’re going to release about it.”

  “What information do we have?” Sula asked.

  “I’ve asked Captain Kai of the Investigative Service to make a report.” She turned to her aide. “Lieutenant Yuen, could you ask Captain Kai to join us.”

  Captain Kai was a solid-looking man with bushy white hair and eyebrows. His beefy face had a benign expression, and his mellow baritone broadcast reassurance. “We have identified all of the attackers,” he said.

  The individual but immobile faces of the Daimong were easily identified with recognition software. The leader of the attack had been a Captain Voday, and his followers were all members of his Twenty-Ninth Company of the Legion of Diligence—who, supposedly, had been arrested, disarmed, and sent to the planet’s surface in the aftermath of Michi’s coup.

  “Disarmed?” Vijana said, scorn in his voice.

  “We’re trying to trace the weapons,” Kai said, “but it seems the serial numbers have been removed from the record.”

  “So that means there could be more guns out there,” Vijana said.

  “Yes, possibly. We are trying to locate and confine all remaining members of the Twenty-Ninth Company.”

  Vijana waved a hand in anger. “Why were they allowed to go free in the first place?” he demanded.

  “That was not my decision, Lord Captain,” said Kai.

  The attackers had a good plan: assemble just before the attack on the checkpoint, then storm the officers’ hostel with the aid of a large bomb. To prevent the officers from fleeing by the hostel’s rear exit, a fire team had been emplaced on the avenue behind the hostel and shot at anyone trying to leave.

  But, Sula thought, they were Legion of Diligence. These were the feared black-clad political police, tasked with arresting those who stole from the government or defied the Praxis. They were accustomed to confronting corrupt bureaucrats or terrified dissidents and hauling them to the interrogators, and while they had trained with their weapons, they hadn’t trained for a firefight against people who shot back. They were police, not an army. Their hesitation and lack of coordination during the attack had been a result of a training regimen inadequate for their new role as terrorists.

  Despite a successful infiltration, appropriate weapons, and a solid plan, the attackers hadn’t succeeded in killing a single officer, though nearly twenty had been wounded, some seriously.

  “Did Captain Voday command the entire unit,” Sula asked, “or was there someone over him?”

  “The Twenty-Ninth Company was part of a division commanded by Colonel Dai-por, a Lai-own who headed all investigations in the Harzapid system. We are trying to locate him as well.”

  “Arrest them all when you find them,” Michi said.

  Captain Kai’s tone seemed designed to sooth jangled nerves. “I have already given that order on my own authority, Lady Fleetcom.”

  “How did they get onto the ring in the first place?” asked Roland Martinez.

  Vijana’s black eyes burned with anger. “How did they get into the dockyard?”

  Kai was unruffled. “I’ll answer those questions in order, if I may.”

  Because security cameras monitored all public areas of the Fleet dockyard, and because many areas of the civilian areas were also surveilled, the Investigative Service was able to track the attackers backward in time from the moment of the attack. The Daimong had traveled to the ring in twos and threes under false identities over the period of a week. They had gotten into the v
icinity of the checkpoint using maintenance corridors and areas under construction or renovation, which indicated a profound knowledge of the ring’s architecture. Since Voday had served on the ring and had arrested people smuggling Fleet supplies and equipment out of the dockyard, perhaps he and his associates knew the routes by which the smugglers operated.

  “Or he had a guide,” Vijana said. “A guide who’s still at liberty to shepherd more attacks.”

  Captain Kai conceded this possibility. “The investigation is in its first hours,” he said. “We’ll know much more by tomorrow.”

  Michi thanked Kai, and the man made his way out.

  “That man needs to be sacked,” Vijana said, “and replaced with someone competent.”

  “Are you suggesting yourself?” Michi asked.

  Vijana gave a savage laugh. “I could hardly do worse!” he said. “I’d track those animals down to their lair!”

  “I need you on your ship when it’s ready,” Michi said. “So I won’t be sending you to the IS. But what I really need to know now is how we’re going to release the information.”

  “We can’t hide the news of an explosion and firefight right on the Avenue of the Praxis,” Roland said.

  “Tell the truth,” Sula said. “Say that a pack of fanatics attacked the dockyard and were all killed.”

  “They weren’t all killed,” Vijana said. “We took prisoners.”

  “The world doesn’t have to know that.”

  Vijana nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You’re right.”

  Terza raised a hand. “Lady Michi,” she said, “most of those killed on our side were civilians who just happened to work in the dockyard. Let the story emphasize them. Release information about them, about their families, about their orphaned children. The attack was a tragic waste of life and resources, and it accomplished nothing from the military point of view, and the people behind it were brutal incompetents.”

  Sula liked that idea, turning what could have been a horrific loss into a video melodrama, complete with weeping children. She grinned. “Mention the operator of the fire-suppression robot,” she said. “His contribution was decisive, and he should get a medal. Lady Michi, I’d suggest you pin that medal yourself.”

  Michi was puzzled. “Robot operator?” she said. “Who?”

  Apparently the Military Constabulary had appropriated all the credit for defeating the Legion. “Ah,” Sula said. “You see—”

  “Excuse me, Lady Fleetcom.” One of Michi’s aides, an olive-skinned cadet with a heavy jaw, had stepped into the room. “We’ve received an urgent message, and Captain Shimizu wanted to make sure you saw it right away.”

  The aide approached Michi and handed her an envelope on a salver. Michi opened the envelope and found both a data foil and a written transcript. She unfolded the transcript and looked at it.

  “Well, my lords and ladies,” she said, “we’ve finally heard from Captain Foote and his missing Light Squadron Eight. And it seems they are in trouble.”

  There was a crackling in Martinez’s chest as he inhaled, his ribs newly released from the constraints of heavy gravity. He deliberately inflated his chest and felt a liberating expansion as ligaments popped and loosened. Alikhan placed his dinner in front of him, and he had the sense that his casserole, like his chest, was in the process of expanding from a somewhat crushed condition.

  A diet of soups, stews, and casseroles was the inevitable result of high acceleration, because they could be secured in the oven for hours while the cooks were safely strapped in their acceleration couches. He’d eaten his share of uninspired casseroles during the course of his service and had nothing against them except their monotony.

  “Wine, my lord?” asked Alikhan.

  “Certainly.” A golden wine was poured into his crystal goblet, a goblet engraved with the crest of his former command, the heavy cruiser Illustrious. Between the wars he’d commissioned table settings that reflected his career, with the intention of playing host to the officers of his next command, but it had been nine years since the end of the Naxid War and his going aboard Bombardment of Los Angeles, and during that time the polished crystal and brilliant porcelain had languished in storage. Since there was plenty of room on Corona, he’d carried all the dinnerware and all his other gear with him to Harzapid, and now he was pleased to see it gleaming on the table before him.

  “Wine?” asked Alikhan of Martinez’s guest.

  “No, thank you,” said Prince Huang. “Could I get a Citrine Fling?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  Martinez reflected that Huang didn’t look old enough to drink alcohol in any case. Huang looked down at his plate. “The lemon sauce has such a refreshing scent, don’t you think? And is that carri fish?”

  “Please,” said Martinez. “Feel free to begin.” He picked up his own fork by way of example, and he wondered whether that actually was lemon he was smelling, and whether the bit of protein he could see amid the vegetables and sauce was carri fish or something else. He certainly couldn’t tell by looking. He took a forkful, and the casserole tasted fine to him. Less bland than the usual casserole, anyway.

  Alikhan returned with Huang’s Citrine Fling and poured it into his goblet. Martinez took a moment to look carefully at Alikhan, to see if he’d suffered from the high gravities of the last day and a half. He seemed much the same as he always had, his wavy iron-gray hair and waxed mustachios in perfect order, his uniform immaculate, his dignity intact.

  “This dish is superb!” Huang said. “Please give my compliments to the chef.”

  “I’m sure Chef Mangahas will be gratified,” said Alikhan.

  “How has the carri fish been preserved?” Huang asked. “It’s not rehydrated, is it?”

  “I shall inquire, my lord,” said Alikhan.

  Martinez looked at his guest. “You’re interested in cooking?” he asked.

  “Cooking is the application of formulae to real life in order to produce a near-infinite series of results,” said Huang. “That’s what I’m really interested in.”

  “Ah. I see.” Martinez raised his glass. “My lord,” he said, “to the everlasting glory of the Praxis.”

  Huang raised his glass. “To the Praxis,” he said and took a polite sip.

  Alikhan drifted back into the room. “Chef Mangahas says she used salt carri,” he said.

  A delighted smile spread across Huang’s face. “Classic!” he said. “I would never have imagined salt fish could be so tender.”

  “It was cooked for a long time, my lord,” said Alikhan.

  “A whole shift at least,” Martinez said. He sipped his wine, which he thought tasted much as wine was supposed to taste. Vipsania had assured him it was a glorious vintage, and he supposed he had to take her word for it.

  “Lieutenant Huang,” Martinez said. “Shall we look at Carmody’s exercises while we eat? We have limited time.”

  “Certainly, Lord Squadcom.” Huang was paying full attention to his meal, but looked up when the recordings of Carmody’s exercises were put on the wall displays. Around the displays, the frescoes of Torminel wrestlers continued their ferocious exercise.

  Huang offered his analysis as the recordings ran. Carmody’s two squadrons ran through three scenarios: a battle in which he employed the Martinez Method against a superior force, a similar battle in which both sides employed the Method, and a fight in which his own squadrons fought each other, both employing the Method. The first two were fought in a virtual environment, with a computer maneuvering the enemy forces and with simulated missile flights, but in the last the squadrons separated and maneuvered against each other, and the missile launches were real, with only the impacts simulated.

  “On the whole, they’ve done well,” Huang said. “Not surprising, because they’re all veteran crews, though the Method is still a bit new to them. Squadron Commander Carmody—or his tactical officer—is developing a good practical understanding of those uses of the Method, and its limitations.”
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  Limitations? Martinez thought. Though up to the mention of alleged limitations, his analysis and that of Huang were in agreement.

  The battles themselves went as Martinez would have expected. In the first fight the Method beat the enemy despite their superior numbers. In the second, where both sides used the same tactics, the superior force won—though not as well as they might have, because the computer-guided enemy employed its tactics with less imagination. In the fight between Carmody’s two squadrons, the winner had only two ships remaining after a general annihilation.

  Huang pointed out a few missed opportunities, and Martinez agreed. Martinez took a last sip of his wine and tried to get a grip on his nerves.

  “You mentioned the Method’s limitations . . .” he began.

  Prince Huang brightened. “Of course, Lord Squadcom,” he said. “The problem lies in the fact that both sides, whatever their tactics, are inhabiting the same fractal dimension, whereas . . .” He busied himself with his sleeve display. “May I use the Structured Mathematics Display? I’d like to point out some of the features of—”

  The wall display he’d chosen remained blank. Huang worked to bring it to life, but it turned out to be another victim of the series of electronic and mechanical faults that had plagued Los Angeles since its hasty refit. As he switched to another display, there was a knock on the door, and Sublieutenant Santana came in without waiting for permission to enter.

  “My lord,” he said as he brandished an envelope, “an urgent message from the fleetcom.”

  Martinez held out a hand as the wall displays lit up with lines of complex mathematical formulae. The envelope contained both a data foil and a printout: he glanced at the printout and then rose from his chair to slot the foil into one of the wall displays.