Sandra considered his words and nodded thoughtfully, calculating. “You’re right, of course. To be truly effective we’d need at least ten teams for special ops. They’d be in charge of training the others.”
Sebastian’s eyes widened. “Others?”
“Yes, Sebastian.” Sandra’s voice had grown rigid with certainty. “If we’re to have a real military effect on something as big as the Core Worlds’ Neuro we’ll need at least a hundred teams.”
The avatar’s face appeared as a strange amalgam of incredulity and chutzpah. “One hundred Outer Alliance assault miners carrying one thousand Outer Alliance avatars operating on UHF-controlled Mars, Luna and Earth?”
Sandra nodded. “Hey, I didn’t say it would be easy.”
“A hundred is far too many to trust with a secret that could rend the human and avatar worlds to shreds.”
“If I could get away with it, Sebastian, I’d recruit ten thousand. If anything, one hundred’s a compromise.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I know more than most that Al must be defeated and that risks will have to be taken, but I’ll need more than your airy assurances that these humans, a number fifty times greater than has ever been allowed in on our secret, can be trusted.”
Sandra folded her arms across her chest, eyes glowing with resolve. “We’re going to find them from a group of isolated humans with a long history of keeping secrets.”
Sebastian shot her a look of confusion.
“VR addicts.”
The avatar stared at her blankly.
“Yes, Sebastian. The lowest, most despised humans in the Alliance. This mission will be their one and only chance to undo some of the damage they’ve done.”
“Do you really think that will work?”
“Never underestimate the desire of a human to reinvent himself. And if they do prove incapable, we can always put them on ice until after the war.”
“But are they not also the most unstable examples of your race?”
“More stable that you think.”
It only took Sebastian a second but in that second he saw where the President was going. “Marilynn,” he whispered softly.
“Marilynn,” affirmed Sandra.
Ever so slowly the head of the avatar council began to nod his head in agreement.
11 A Clash of Arms
UHFS Liddel, Day Nineteen of the Long Battle
Ceres was less than six and half million kilometers away. It could almost be seen with the naked eye. The media was jubilant. Fleet Admiral Samuel U. Trang had managed to do what no one in the history of the UHF had managed thus far. He’d gone up against the Outer Alliance’s most feared adversary, J. D. Black, and had not been completely and utterly destroyed. Trang had not considered the mere fact of his survival a noteworthy accomplishment, but he let the media believe what it wanted. As far as they were concerned, Admiral Black had been forced back, and if that played well for the UHF, it would ultimately play well for him. Black’s fleet was trapped by its need to defend Ceres, and he used that need to dictate the terms of the battle. It was true that in order to achieve his goal, he’d lost over three hundred ships—a number almost as big as his fleet at the start of the Long Battle—but he was trading ships he could afford to lose for space J.D. could not.
Trang stared hard at the theater of war displayed in the holo-tank, and as he did, the veins along his forehead throbbed to life. He moved his hands along the protrusions, gently attempting to coax them back down, and hoping naïvely that in doing so the feelings of dread in his gut would subside as well. But they never did.
AWS Warprize II, Day Nineteen of the Long Battle
At less than six and half million kilometers away, Ceres could almost be seen with the naked eye. The media was concerned. Though they’d not lost their mystical faith in the Blessed One they were hoping that whatever it was she was going to do, she’d do it soon.
J.D. studied both her position and Trang’s. With chin clasped firmly in hand, she triangulated everyone with Ceres. It was time. She looked at the newly promoted Lieutenant Awala, who owed her good fortune to inexperience or, more specifically, the fact that more experienced officers had been transferred to other ships as needed.
“Comm.”
“Yes, Admiral!” answered Fatima, snapping to attention. The snickers heard round the bridge turned the young officer’s cheeks red.
“Please relay the following to Admiral Hassan,” ordered J.D., ignoring the hazing. “Message to read, ‘Omad, watch your temper.’ Relay same command to Fleet HQ on Ceres.”
“‘Omad, watch your temper,’ relayed to command of center flotilla and Fleet HQ. At once, Admiral,” Fatima repeated dutifully, only this time with slightly less gusto.
Fleet Command HQ, Cliff House, Ceres
Admiral Sinclair reviewed J.D.’s orders and took a deep breath. He then got up, stuck his head out his office door, and growled at the first aide he saw. “Call a general Cabinet meeting, and get me Hildegard on a secure holo.” Though one would’ve sufficed, three lieutenants jumped, running in all directions to do as he commanded. Before Sinclair was back at his desk, a static holographic image of Hildegard Rhunsfeld was waiting. After he checked the security protocols, he released the hold and the image looked at him.
“Is it time, Joshua?”
“Yes, it is, Hild. I’ve called a Cabinet meeting. ‘Slingshot’s’ a go.”
“Joshua,” Hildegard intoned, “you’re not in a secure room.”
The grand admiral gnashed his teeth. “Screw Olmstead and his oppressive restrictions. This thing either is or ain’t gonna fly, and at this point, two hours won’t make a difference. Start ’er up.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Hildegard said in a more formal tone.
Fifteen minutes later, Via Cereana, for the first time in its history, was closed down and put on emergency power. Ten minutes after that, Ceres implemented martial law.
And so it came to pass that the Children of the Stars prepared to battle the hordes of the Stock, cursed be their names. For the second time in this the greatest of humanity’s trials must the Children of the Stars battle at the very gates of the Holy City. And so it came to pass that the Children of the Stars put their faith upon a tool of man, as they’d done so many times in the past. And confident were they in their own cleverness and skill.
Astral Testament
Book III, 3:1–2
UHFS Atlanta, Flagship of Admiral Zenobia Jackson
Zenobia Jackson sat anchored in her command chair, drained to the edge of reason with no one the wiser. She viewed the operations with a detached glare that indicated she both trusted her subordinates to do their jobs but at the same time was on top of everything that was happening. It was a trick she’d learned from watching Admiral Trang. She also knew that what she’d learned from years of observation, Trang seemed always to have possessed. At first she’d assumed it was his West Point training. But the years of watching scores of “properly” trained officers commit blunder after blunder had disabused her of that notion. Besides, she’d reasoned, J. D. Black had been a friggin’ lawyer before the war—explain that one. In the end, Zenobia had concluded that for some people command was innate, and for others—those humble enough to accept it—command would be learned through the never-ending cycle of observation and emulation. She knew what she was and in whose company she’d been accepted—and was grateful.
Zenobia survived nearly three weeks of continuous battle against the best the Alliance had to offer and, of late, began to notice a subtle change in the way the crew acted in her presence. She never mentioned it, but their obvious pride and the almost visceral sense of calm that pervaded the command sphere on her entrance was the best commendation she’d ever received. It drove her to do better. It drove her to never let them down.
She reviewed the data pouring out of her holodisplay. The Long Battle had been quiet for her, in the center, as it had been since the early days near the orbit of Mars. It had become a batt
le of maneuver with Trang using his superior numbers to leverage J. D. Black out of position by flanking her edges. Black would then pull back, and the slow dance would begin again.
What it had meant for the command of the fleet was that her group, the Delta Wing, controlled the center, and Gupta and Trang had the flanks. The goal was to leverage the Alliance out of a few million miles of space one dance at a time. In the course of nearly three weeks, she’d been engaged in constant maneuvers that could and often would turn into brief but intense exchanges of fire.
The closer she got to Ceres, the more nervous she got. Trang’s warning of preparing for the unexpected had not gone unheeded. She’d drilled the crew constantly and worked through every simulation both she and the mainframe could imagine. But ice ships weren’t predictable, soldiers as debris weren’t predictable. Her enemy was incalculable. All she could do was continue to hew those under her command into a weapon that when called forth could be unleashed to maximum efficiency. But, she wondered, would she even have time to draw? She began inputting another outrageous scenario into the simulation program—her kidnapping and replacement by a double—when she noticed a shift in the enemy formation. She resisted the urge to order immediate action, took a deep breath, and waited the fraction of a second it would take for the sensor officer, Lieutenant Cahs Congraves, to inform her. As soon as he did, she sent an alert to Trang and Gupta, then ordered her private view of the theater put into the center holo-tank. If the entire bridge could see what was going on, she reasoned, then anyone could and hopefully would offer insight.
“They seem to be stronger on the wings than usual,” offered the lieutenant.
Zenobia’s eyes, observant and determined, focused on her holodisplay. It offered her more than one hundred possible explanations ranked by probability. “Not unexpected,” she said reassuringly. “It may be a result of our flanking maneuvers finally paying off—they don’t have much room left to retreat.”
“Yes, sir. I concur.”
I wish you hadn’t, thought Zenobia. She had nothing against Congraves; he was battle tested and smart. But no dissension at all? From anyone on the bridge? That was red flag enough. “Which is the lead Alliance ship now?” she asked.
“It’s supposed to be the AWS Shark.”
Seeing his superior officer’s frown, Congraves keyed in on the lead ship. At the moment it came into full view, the bridge grew deathly still. In the center of the holo-tank was the scarred but obviously repaired image of a frigate the UHF had come to loathe almost as much as J. D. Black’s AWS Warprize II.
“The Dolphin,” Zenobia cursed. “I want to know why I wasn’t informed the moment it assumed lead position.” Her tone was calm, but with enough edge to have effected a public flogging. The sensor officer responsible would never risk that kind of humiliation again—should he survive the impending battle.
Zenobia looked over to her communications officer. “Alert fleet command that a general engagement is likely, and bring Delta Wing up to full alert status.”
“Fleet command alerted, sir. Going to full status,” repeated the comm officer. He then crooked his head slightly. “Sir?”
“Yes, Heffernan.”
“He’d have to be crazy to attack our center. We could be reinforced from the flanks with ease.”
“Maybe he thinks we’re weak in the center or that our flanks will be slow to reinforce with the large Alliance formations he has on either end. Maybe he’s just crazy. But he’s—”
“Admiral Jackson!” shouted the sensor officer. “I have nuclear detonation … NWA, sir.”
Zenobia eyed her display coolly. Hassan’s fleet was using the nuclear warhead acceleration that J. D. Black had invented and used to great effect in her escape of Admiral Tully’s fleet those many years ago.
“How many?”
“Sixty, sir. All centered around the Dolphin. Ten at cruiser class.”
“Any heavies?” she asked, knowing what havoc even one heavy cruiser could wreak.
“None,” the comm officer stated with authority. Then, seconds later, “That is, that we can see, sir.”
Zenobia acknowledged his paranoia with a slight nod, then studied the composition, speed, and direction of the advancing ships. They were coming straight for her. A slight smile emerged from the corners of her mouth.
“All right, everyone. Time to earn our quarterly dividends.” She watched the crew draw confidence from her seemingly cavalier attitude, then ordered Delta Wing to advance and meet the enemy. She purposely kept her numbers equal to the Alliance advance force, knowing she had enough reserves to create two wings thirty ships strong. These she positioned to her rear 180 degrees apart. Zenobia took a deep breath and placed her arms onto the rests of her command chair. In less than ten minutes, weeks of steady, predictable, and almost boring maneuver had been replaced by the adrenaline-fueled fear that only massive fleetwide combat could elicit.
On the first pass, her ships took most of the damage. For all the skill and training the UHF personnel now had, the Alliance ships were simply better at coordinated maneuver and firing. Some of her force also made the mistake of trying to single out the Dolphin to the exclusion of other higher-percentage targets. They’d correctly figured that the death of Omad Hassan and the loss of one of the legendary ships of the Alliance would be worth the risk. But Omad had been counting on that and made the ships pay for their captains’ eagerness. It wasn’t a decisive engagement—no ships lost to either side—but Zenobia had more than a few that would need repairs as soon as possible if they survived.
The center holo-tank flickered—a little at first but then more noticeably.
The comm officer looked up from his display. “ECMs, sir. Damn good shit too, begging your pardon, Admiral.”
“Annoyingly good. Employ computer modeling, Lieutenant.”
“Sir.”
The tank went blank. Moments later, it snapped back to life and the Alliance fleet reappeared, but this time with a percentage symbol next to each ship. It was the computer’s best guess of enemy ship numbers, distance, and speed based on what little information it could snatch between jamming. Zenobia saw that most of the enemy ships were hovering well within the 80 percent of accuracy range. She could drop as low as 70 percent to make a reasonably effective battle plan but not much more. She wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told her that Trang could make do with 20 percent, but she wasn’t Trang, and in this battle she didn’t need to be—especially with the Alliance ships near so many of her own, their electronic countermeasures could distort only so much.
What she saw was that Omad wasn’t reversing direction for another pass. Instead he was going after one of the reserve detachments. Zenobia’s first instinct was to punish him for his arrogance in leaving her alone on the dance floor. Omad’s heavy rail guns were now facing in the wrong direction, so all she’d have to do was attack him from behind. That is, until the sensor officer’s raised eyebrow alerted her to another possibility. On his look, she stared disbelieving at the vision in front of her.
“Congraves, is this some kind of trick?”
“Sir, far as we can tell, that number is accurate … within the percentages displayed.”
Which meant that, within a 78 percent accuracy rating, the Alliance center—consisting of only forty ships—was effectively exposed. There was always a chance that the pitiful number of ships remaining had been meant to draw her in, perhaps as the latest victim of some diabolical new tactic or weapon the Alliance had managed to cook up. More realistically, though, they’d probably been meant to scare her off as they so often had with lesser UHF commanders wielding larger fleets. Suspecting it was the latter, Zenobia acted on impulse and ordered her force of sixty ships to charge at the forty while requesting reinforcements for the detachment withering under Omad’s assault. She further transmitted her intentions to break the Alliance center, again requesting reinforcements should she succeed. As her force raced toward the enemy, she had one thought in mind:
If she could split the Alliance fleet’s two main detachments from each other, the UHF would finally gain the upper hand in the so far interminable tug-of-war. With effective control of the center, they could concentrate on one flank and chip away at it while holding off the other. Once the first flank was destroyed, they could go after the other. And now all that stood between Zenobia and a possible end to the war was forty Alliance ships, a few hours of combat, and the determination and will to see it through. She cleared her head and concentrated on the impending battle. Gone from her mind was the worry of Alliance chicanery—gone too, was the warning about miraculous opportunities.
UHFS Liddel, Alpha Wing
Admiral Sam Trang anxiously scanned the incoming data as a holo-image of Admiral Abhay Gupta’s torso appeared in front of him.
“This is it, Sam,” Admiral Gupta said, managing to convey both concern and excitement. “Whatever their plan is to fuck us, I’m betting Luna shipyard stock to a DeGen’s IPO we’re looking at it.”
“Zenobia,” murmured Trang, as if already in mourning.
“Too tempting to pass up, Sam. It’s Hannibal at the Canne all over again. Not even sure I’d a done any different.”
Trang nodded his agreement, then watched the holo-tank in silence as Omad’s flotilla eviscerated the thirty ships of Zenobia’s reserve force. The flyby had been precise and well timed. Omad then used his momentum to turn on Zenobia’s other reserves.
“I really hate that son of a bitch,” Gupta said, following the battle from his end.
“He’s good,” said Trang. “At this, he might be the best. But if I had to take a guess, I’m thinking Black’s none to pleased.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“I’m sure they’ve got something up their sleeve, but this can’t possibly be planned. Omad probably saw Zenobia’s reserves exposed and figured they’d be easy pickings. And he’s got enough faith in his fleet to pair forty of his against sixty of ours. Probably hadn’t counted on Zenobia being that aggressive, though.”
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