Two Destroyers will be enough, he thought, and if by some insane chance the Humans killed one, he would make sure it was not the one he commanded.
***
Recycler One spoke to his trium in the privacy of the great ship’s digestive tract. “My plan has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. The Commanders have let it be known that this Destroyer shall divide, becoming two.”
“Our plan,” Two corrected.
“Yes, we helped,” Three chimed in.
“Of course,” said One indulgently.
“But that was not the plan,” Three went on in his usual whining grumbling taste.
“The plan was subtle, with many permutations!” One insisted. “The goal was to create a disruption that would provide opportunity, and that has occurred.”
Two soothed, “Yes, One, what Three means is he is very happy with the intersection of positive chance and the strategy you convinced us to employ. Right, Three?”
“Right,” Three agreed, suddenly remembering that his fortunes rested with his fellows, and if he failed in some way, they might discard him from the trium.
“Realize, comrades, that with two Destroyers, we will automatically be promoted to the middle of the hierarchy, probably in the new ship. Fresh cloned mitoses will fill the places beneath us, so instead of eighty-second of eighty-two, we can expect to land in the forties, or even thirties!”
“And,” interjected Two, “probably under a brand-new Commander who may bear us less animosity.”
Three could not help himself. “If there is hard fighting to be done, the new Destroyer will take the lead and the most casualties.”
“All the more reason to rejoice,” One enthused. “If we survive, we will be promoted into the casualties’ places and also gain a greater share of the glory and positive performance reports, so let us cease to babble about the consequences and concentrate on the planning and execution. We must be ready with plans and contingencies to forward our advancement.”
“Since when did you become so ambitious?” Three asked curiously.
“Since I had to share a tiny escape probe with you two,” One retorted. “I find I am eager to gain the perquisites of adequate pod-room, more control of my destiny, and when we inevitably conquer…”
“You wish to blend with a Human.”
One communicated the equivalent of an evil grin. “Perhaps I will. If I do, I will enslave them, lord it over them, and punish them for the trouble they caused us. Or, if denied, I will bide my time and rise in the hierarchy of this new Destroyer.”
“And we are with you, One,” Two said, flicking a warning molecule at Three. Grandiose dreams, Two thought, but he is a beast that might be ridden until it must be abandoned.
***
Rear Fusor One, formerly Survey Commander One and then Recycler One, examined his trium’s new control room with satisfaction. “It is as I said. We have risen to forty-first of eighty-one, and have an important function to perform.”
“Front Fusors would have been better,” Three grumbled. “We won’t get much action.”
“Nor much risk, because statistically the front of the ship sustains four fifths of the potential damage in any battle,” Two reminded.
“Oh. That’s true.” Three brightened a bit.
“More importantly, we now have fresh new subordinates and full access to all sensor feeds.” From his comfortable new container tank One extended a large eyeball to take a position inside a hemispherical screen, and shoved a pseudopod into a communicator port. “This will provide us with maximum information and maximum opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Two asked.
“One never knows what might come up in the heat of battle,” One opined.
As the new Destroyer grew from its weak half-state, the trium trained with its rearward-facing fusors according to schedule, and more; One insisted on maximum effort, as weapons control was not something with which they possessed the greatest experience. He was determined that they perform with maximum effectiveness, mainly to ensure the potential to become casualties remained as low as possible.
Despite Three’s complaint, this position suited One quite well. Their control chamber was well inside the Destroyer’s skin, at approximately the midpoint of its back hemisphere, so they were unlikely to become casualties. Their duties were mostly defensive and reactive, unless the unlikely event of close-in battle using the short-range fusors occurred.
One judged the situation nearly ideal.
Chapter 46
Daily intelligence briefings on the enemy’s activities had become painfully routine. The analysts tried to wring new data out of the continuous long-range observations, and occasionally they had something to report, but most of the time it was all as bland as unsalted oatmeal, Absen thought.
This time he expected something different; Intel had received the first significant data dump from one of the four stealth probes launched six months ago. The tiny robot ships had been passively gathering information the whole time as they approached the enemy, and from now on would send periodic update packages in tightbeam burst transmissions.
Colonel Zolen had set it up this way so that if any of the scouts were detected, that only one of them would probably be found at a time. Coming in widely separated as they were, she hoped at least one would slip in close before being killed. If they got really lucky, it might even survive to watch from a reasonable distance.
“Good morning Admiral and staff,” she opened, nodding at her boss and the room full of officers. She went on, clicking to her first slide on the big display. “Our preliminary analysis of the first probe data package confirms the suspicions of the minority report; the Destroyer masked its fusion drive signature. It appears to have begun at a size approximately as Raphaela Denham has described: two and a half kilometers in diameter, massing perhaps eighteen billion tons. It has come to rest within a cluster of cometary objects approximately half a light-year from our sun, the closest such grouping in the Hills Cloud subset of the Oort Cloud. In other words, it’s the closest gas station before the Kuiper Belt between Neptune and Pluto.”
“And that would be far too close to us,” Absen observed. “If they waited to stop there, we’d already be attacking them, and no one wants to refuel under fire.”
“Correct, sir. Our probes are approximately here,” she caused four icons to flash on the display, “about three quarters of the way to the enemy’s position, but because of the delay this first report comes from here, only about half way. From now on we should receive information every few days at semi-random times, increasing in frequency as they approach their targets.”
“You said it began at a size we expected?” Scoggins asked from her seat down the table.
“Yes, based on the output of its drive and its observed deceleration speed.” Zolen consulted a tablet. “Realizing the observation distance is still a quarter light year, it appears that the Destroyer was, as of that time, mostly feeding. It has ingested large quantities of materials and now masses over twenty-four billion tons, with a corresponding expansion in diameter and volume.”
“Any idea what it’s going to do with all that mass?” Absen asked.
“We’re still analyzing, sir, but the highest probability is that it is generating an excess of hypervelocity missiles and other war materiel, and is storing processed fuel for its fusion engines. In short, we believe it is gorging itself before battle.”
Absen noted that Zolen had not mentioned the thirty thousand Aardvarks he had sent out to attack. Their mission was a semi-open secret, known but not confirmed to all the senior staff. Their departure on “deep space exercises” had been impossible to conceal, even with ironclad OPSEC procedures, if for no other reason that the Earth-based civilian-controlled radio telescopes observed their departure.
“Are there any other possibilities? Red Team?” Absen looked over at Scoggins, who shifted uncomfortably.
“Sir, we’re only seeing this data now. We can have something f
or you in a day or two.”
Absen waved a hand in the air. “Indulge me, Commander. Speculate.”
Scoggins cleared her throat and straightened, calling something up on her tablet. “We have a list of possibilities rank-ordered by likelihood. Colonel Zolen briefed the top one. Number two in our estimation is that it will spawn auxiliary ships such as frigates and cruisers to increase its tactical flexibility. This is what we would do in their place, though Mrs. Denham disagrees with the rest of us. She says we are thinking too much like humans, and alien minds are, well…alien.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Possibility three is that it is going to create a lot of cloned engine pods just like we have been using and slap them on comets or asteroids, either out there or in farther at the Kuyper Belt. Most of what’s out there with them is cometary ices, which would make using them as bombardment weapons quite tricky. They wouldn’t be able to take much acceleration without breaking apart. Coming in closer to get asteroids makes a lot more sense, except they have to know we’ll attack them if they do. There are a number of permutations of this scenario.”
“Okay, I get it,” Absen encouraged. “Next?”
“The last possibility with an assessed likelihood more than one percent is that the Destroyer is dividing itself.”
“Dividing itself?”
“Yes, sir. Like an amoeba, splitting in two. Mrs. Denham actually ranks this higher than the other two, based on her understanding of Meme psychology, though most of the rest of us do not. She says that they favor fewer, larger ships, a strategy which maximizes their ability to survive. She says they place more value on their own lives than we do. They don’t like to sacrifice themselves, even if it wins the battle.”
“Dividing or spawning extra ships also avoids an all-or-nothing strategy. If you have just one big ship and you lose it, you lose the battle and maybe the war,” Absen observed.
Captain Forman, Red Team’s psychologist, spoke up. “Admiral, while I am skeptical, I have to advocate for Rae Denham’s position in this case. We think in terms of losses of discrete ships, of damage repairs, and of winning the battle. The Meme think in terms of healing and running, of living to fight another day, because that’s what their ships are – alive or dead. From all we understand, they are what we would call cowardly, but it is a viewpoint tailored to the kind of ships they have. They also take the long view – if they do not win today, they will survive, heal, regroup, and come back with more ships. Tactically, they will expend all their long-range missiles, employ all of their low-risk strategies such as chucking asteroids at us, and then if things are going badly, they will run.”
“Them running is a marginal victory for us,” Absen said.
Ford snorted.
“You have something to say?”
The weapons officer cleared his throat and said, “I just think it’s ironic that if this turns into some kind of stalemate, both sides might think they won.”
“But we would be right,” Scoggins replied, “because for us, survival is winning. Buying time is winning. The more time we have, the more we grow and produce.”
“I agree,” Absen settled that discussion before it turned into its usual Ford-Scoggins scrap. “But back to this two-ship split. Red Team, get with Blue Team and make sure you have COA decision trees for all the possibilities, including that one. I also want to hear a potential COA rank order not by probability but by risk to us. In other words, tell me what enemy COA presents the biggest danger, and tell Blue Team to get working on contingency plans for each.” He turned to Colonel Zolen. “How soon will we know what they are doing?”
“No way to be sure, sir,” she replied, “but every report will tell us more.”
“I hate space. It’s too damn big,” Absen muttered.
***
“It’s confirmed,” Colonel Zolen told Admiral Absen privately four weeks later. “The enemy has split into two. But we are now too far for any message we send to the attack fleet to reach them before the engagement.”
“But the stealth probes have been beaming intel to Yeager, right?”
“The aerospace fleet is networked with point laser comms. If they picked up the probes’ beamcasts – which they should – it will bounce from ship to ship to his on-board computer. It may decide to wake him up early. At least it will be waiting for him first thing, so he can decide what to do.”
“Makes me wish we could have put people on the stealth probes, so they could prioritize the information with a human mind. Computers can’t be relied upon to understand things like that.”
Zolen nodded. “Maybe the AI program will improve things.”
“Not on my watch,” Absen replied. “There’s no way I am going to trust an artificial intelligence with any important task until they have proven themselves, and that won’t happen before the fight.”
“Roger that,” she replied.
“Is there anything we can do to help them now?” Absen asked, then realized he was inquiring of the wrong person. Intel people did not make decisions or policy, and thinking they had all the answers just because information on the enemy was their specialty had led many a commander astray.
Zolen cleared her throat and appeared to choose her words carefully. “I can brief the Red and Blue Teams on all this, and I’m sure they will have some COA adjustments as soon as you want them.”
Absen smiled and nodded. “Good answer, Colonel.” He held up a hand as she bristled a bit. “No, I don’t mean that sarcastically. I have a couple of hundred experts to answer questions like that, and I mean to use them. Just make sure you give them everything you know. OPSEC doesn’t mean a thing if we compartmentalize it all to the point that we can’t use information we know.”
“But sir, what about the enemy agents? Like Simms?”
Absen stared at the woman for a moment. “Even if there are any we haven’t found, they are limited by the speed of light as we are. Counterintelligence and the security people are working overtime on that problem. Leave it to them. For now, I’m more worried about some key fact sitting in some obscure secret file because it’s been overclassified. You’re my J2. Loosen up.”
Zolen pressed her lips together and nodded, clearly withholding something.
“Spit it out, Colonel,” Absen snapped. He wondered to himself if it was a sign of age or stress that he seemed to bark more lately.
Some repressed anger seemed to allow her to overcome her reticence. “That’s it, though, sir. I’m a colonel.”
“So? You bucking for a promotion?”
“Frankly, sir, yes!”
That stopped him, as his question had not really been serious. Like any bureaucracy, the EarthFleet promotion system ground its gears in a very measured way, and except for signing endorsements or making decisions on recommendations his staff came up with, he had little to do with it. He was far too busy with operational details.
“Go on,” Absen said. “Really. I want to hear your concerns.”
“Your J4 Logistics is a former four-star that accepted demotion to two so he could do a job he was eminently suited for. You are your own J3 Ops, but even then you have a one-star deputy to do the day-to-day. J5 Plans is a one-star as well. Somehow, us J2 Intelligence types – and J6 CyberComm for that matter – only rate oh-sixes.” She meant the rank immediately beneath the lowest general officer. “I need a similar rank and status as my counterparts, not for myself, but just to get the job done. And I’ve been doing this job for almost four years. Have I pissed you off somehow? Sir?”
Absen forced himself to look at Zolen, really look at her, and realized that she was right. He’d been taking her for granted, at the very least. Perhaps his operational disdain for the intel weenies had blinded him to the inequities in the system, and he had been letting parts of EarthFleet run itself. He remembered reading about organizational behavior and bureaucracies – back when he had time to read for professional pleasure – and knew that he had neglected certain things too long.
“Colonel, you have done an exemplary job. I promise you I will look into the situation and you will hear something within a week.” Absen gave her a reassuring smile. “Expect good news. If there’s nothing else, send in my aide as you go, will you?”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” Her step seemed light as she left his office.
“Commander,” he said as his aide stepped to the door, “tell the J1 I want to see him at 0800 tomorrow. Tell him to bring EarthFleet org charts down to the O-6 level, as well as have handy the records of every colonel equivalent. Download everything to my desk.”
Chapter 47
Year Nine
Vango Markis opened his eyes to the inside of Lark’s coffin. Despite the biogel lining that eliminated all hot spots and kept bedsores from forming under acceleration, he felt like hell. The thing stank, too; he’d been told to expect that. He’d have thought he’d gotten used to it after almost a year in space, even if he had been asleep most of the time.
Fortunately he’d only experienced three subjective days. Between the chips in his head and the computers in his Aardvark, his sense of passing time had been slowed to the point where this confined space seemed merely irritating rather than unbearable.
Hitting the Decant control caused gravity to come on and the gel to begin draining away, leaving him nude and standing in a cramped shower-like stall. Once he pulled the connectors out of his cranial sockets and put their caps back in, he turned on a spray of gloriously hot water and washed himself thoroughly. It was likely the only such he was going to have unless he survived and returned from this mission.
Reluctantly he stepped out, driven by duty and also by the vaguely unsettled feeling of being unlinked. After a year with his brain connected to the machines, there was definitely something missing, as if background music were suddenly shut off, or a breeze died. He remembered the briefings about virtuality addiction and VR confusion, but those were supposed to only apply after long subjective times in the artificial universe. The whole point of slowing things down was to combat those effects.
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