by Jay Allan
“No, my friend…I do not mean I used specimens from the supply of genetic material. I used my own blood samples. Don’t forget, we carry the genetic codes of the Ancients as well as the humans inside us.”
“You were able to initiate widespread cell regeneration using a serum you manufactured from your own blood?”
“Yes, Achilles, my friend. Now, you begin to see that the potential goes far beyond simply treating Plague victims. Our discussion of near-immortality was realistic. I am even more certain now than I was before.”
“Yes, I can see that, Themistocles.” Achilles saw the wondrous uses, but he saw a dark side as well, and he felt a spark of fear at where his friend’s discovery might lead.
“It is good that we were cautious about announcing this publicly. We must be very careful.”
“Careful?”
Achilles held back a sigh. He’d always had a healthy dose of cynicism, a reflex that made him look at things from multiple perspectives. For all the raw intelligence his fellow-Mules possessed, they could also be myopic in considering the motivations of others.
They can be naïve…
“Themistocles…have you given thought to the fact that you are developing a virtual fountain of youth for them all…one that is powered by our blood?”
Achilles tended to look at the dark side of things…but he knew enough about humanity and its history to feel pretty certain his views were more or less on point.
“For now, Achilles…but I am sure I will be able to synthesize…”
“You are sure? For forty years, we have been sure we would discover a way to reproduce among ourselves. For forty years, the Plague eluded any real progress. How long do you think the Normals would be patient if they knew they could live for thousands of years…and all they needed was a steady supply of our blood?”
Achilles saw a nightmare unfolding in his mind, the Mules being reduced to captives, virtual farm animals kept so their blood could be harvested. He saw the Normals fighting among themselves, too, killing each other for the precious—and limited—serum that would allow them to defy disease and live for countless centuries.
“I never really considered the implications. I don’t need a tremendous amount of blood to synthesize a round of treatment. I believe we could treat all Plague cases quite easily using voluntary blood donations. I think most of our people would…”
“Yes, Themistocles…most of our people would donate blood to save stricken Tanks. But, what if there are ten times as many Tanks in the future, or a hundred? And, what happens when you continue your research and perfect it…and when every Normal is demanding ongoing treatments for other sicknesses or wounds…or simply to counteract aging? You know our numbers are sharply limited, even without the external caps imposed on quickenings. What happens when voluntary donations are insufficient? Mandatory ones? Then what?”
Themistocles looked back at his friend, and Achilles could see the scientist was finally considering the darker side of his discovery. “So, what do we do, Achilles? Deny dying Tanks a treatment that can save their lives?”
Achilles didn’t like how much of him wanted to answer, ‘yes.’ There was no question Themistocles’s new discovery represented a risk to the Mules, that it would be safer to keep it a secret. But, he finally shook his head. “No, of course not. We can’t withhold the treatment and let Tanks die who could otherwise live.” He also considered what had crossed his mind when Themistocles had first told him of the treatment, how it could be used to help…influence…the Tanks in the event of a future conflict between Earth Two’s genetic groups.
Achilles took a deep breath. “But, we have to keep all treatments here…and there can be no public disclosure of the biochemistry and other specifics involved. We must control every aspect…regardless of any pressure that may be exerted.”
“I agree, Achilles. But, how do we move forward with this? Do we tell President Harmon the truth and seek his support? Or do we mislead him somehow?”
Achilles sighed softly. “I don’t know, Themistocles. I just don’t know.”
Chapter Twenty
Flag Bridge, E2S Midway
System G48
Earth Two Date 02.16.43
“All batteries, increase power levels to one hundred ten percent.” Strand was ordering her ships to overload their guns, and she knew there’d be a price to pay for that. To an extent it was simple probability. The power ratings were based on estimates of how long a ship was likely to endure sustained firing levels. A single shot at one hundred ten percent was very likely to go off without a hitch. Even ten shots, or perhaps a hundred. But, across her entire task force, with the guns blazing at maximum fire rates, there would be burnouts.
And some of them would be bad.
Strand had read the accounts of Terrance Compton’s old battles, and Augustus Garret’s as well. Both men had been aggressive commanders, willing to take the chances needed to secure difficult victories. Overloading guns in their day had put significant numbers of their crew at risk. Hundreds of gunnery teams had died in their turrets, victims of the radiation back blasts or explosions resulting from the failure of overpowered guns. But, for the most part, Strand was risking only equipment. Her ships were far more automated than their predecessors, and there were few actual men and women crawling around those gun emplacements.
That was something, at least.
“All ships acknowledge, Admiral.” A pause. “Mesa, Vanguard, and Samuels report inadequate power generation to comply.”
“Very well.” Strand was surprised it was only three ships. That probably meant some of her captains were pushing their vessels recklessly to obey her orders. She knew some of the reactors out there weren’t up to the increase.
Midway vibrated, a hard shock this time. Strand knew her flagship well enough to have a good idea what had happened. A hit somewhere in the stern, and a few compartments—two or three—blown out, the force of expelled air creating the shudder that rocked through the vessel.
She glanced down at her screen as the actual report came in, feeling a fleeting burst of satisfaction at the accuracy of her guess. She’d been spot on. The stream of data scrolling down confirmed her other prediction as well. The damage was minimal…and none of her people had been killed.
Not by that last shot, at least.
Her head darted to the side, and a feral smile took her expression as Midway’s guns fired again. She could hear the increased power in the weapons, too, as she listened to the distant whine of the batteries’ fire. And, in the swirling center of Midway’s great display she saw a First Imperium battleship transfixed, a Colossus, ripped open as those deadly beams struck it amidships…and seconds later, a burst of almost incalculable energy as the great vessel’s containment failed, its magnetic core breached by Midway’s deadly heavy batteries.
Strand had read the old accounts of humanity’s wars against the First Imperium, of Augustus Garret’s desperate struggles to defeat enemy fleets vastly more powerful and advanced than his own. She wondered what the New Regent analyzed, deep in its hidden fortress somewhere out there. Its destroyed predecessor, in its last astonished moments, must have found it unfathomable how the inferior humans had bested it. What, she wondered, had gone through its version of a mind as its end approached? Had it felt fear…or something comparable? Bewilderment?
And, what does the New Regent discern, as it sees Earth Two ships centuries in advance of those the Alliance and other Earth powers had thrown at it just a few decades before? Does it feel tension as it realizes its technology gap has largely slipped away, that its enemies have drawn ever closer to parity?
Perhaps that’s why if lured us here, resorted to so dangerous a trap. Maybe it’s analysis warned of its deadly human enemy, and the growing power we commanded. Perhaps, in its own way, this is the Regent’s desperation showing…
Her eyes caught movement in the display, a small cloud of tiny specs of light.
McDaid’s squadrons…
The fighters had seemed to be entirely on their way out, until the New Regent surfaced. The First Imperium had never had an adequate response to the small craft, and the renewal of the war against the robotic enemy had stayed the budget axe, and preserved a small fighter component in the fleet. The survival of the fighter corps was championed by none other than Mariko Fujin, President Harmon’s wife, and a hero of the squadrons in her own right.
Strand had launched Midway’s eighteen fighters already, as had the eight others of her ships that carried contingents of six to eighteen themselves. One hundred ten fighter-bombers, less than a tithe of the massive formations Terrance Compton and Augustus Garret had once launched, but a potent force nevertheless, especially against an enemy with none of their own.
As a commander, Strand had never relied on the small fighter forces at her disposal…but now, as she watched the small cluster moving forward, she felt something. Admiration, excitement. The pilots were a breed apart, and now, as her eyes followed their wings moving directly toward the enemy, a group of tiny ships moving boldly toward the First Imperium behemoths, she understood…and she was glad to have them with her.
She narrowed her eyes and watched…watched as the men and women who carried the spirit of Greta Hurley, and a thousand lost aces, drove right for the enemy formation.
* * *
“Let’s go, boys and girls…we’ve got fresh First Imperium meat out there, and I for one am damned hungry!” McDaid had always wanted to be a fighter pilot, even as he grew up, steeped in the stories of the great heroes of the fleet. He’d never been deterred, even when he’d seen the fighter corps dwindling to irrelevance and, for a while, almost to non-existence. He’d long regretted the time and place of his birth, ached to live in the days when thousands of fighters blasted into space, led by such legendary commanders as Greta Hurley. But, he’d never let go of his goal to make it into the cockpit, and now, years later, he was the commander of the fleet’s combined wings.
“We’re with you, Commodore.”
“On your tail, Boss.”
McDaid smiled. The fighter corps was generally left alone within the navy’s structure, and it had definitely retained the kind of unique culture its predecessors had displayed. Pilots were alone in their cockpits, making crazed runs at ships thousands of times their size…it took a certain kind of personality to excel in situations like that, and the brass had somehow managed to remember that and conduct a more or less hands off policy on the squadrons.
That was Mariko Fujin’s doing more than anything, he realized, though he knew Admiral West’s long and storied career reached back to the days of those massive fighter battles as well. Fujin had been somewhat of a mentor to him in his early days, and he still remembered the thrill of watching her fly her sleek, fast ship, even if just on training maneuvers.
McDaid looked up at the scanner in front of him. The enemy ships were close now, already locked in a deadly energy duel with Strand’s line. McDaid would have led his birds in an assault the instant they’d launched, but the admiral’s orders were clear…and he followed them to the letter.
Wait…wait until the lines are engaged.
McDaid understood. It was contrary to most tenets of fighter tactics—after all, the whole point was to hit the enemy before they got into range of the battleline—but through all the distracting bravado of a pilot, he understood his small force wasn’t strong enough to operate as the vast strike forces that had come before. Strand’s making him wait had been the right call. The enemy ships were battered now, and no weapon in the fleet’s arsenal was better suited to targeting weak spots on damaged vessels…and delivering the coup de grace.
And, that was just what his people were going to do…
“Alright…break now. You’re all on your own. Pick out a nice target, and show these blasted machines what human pilots can do.” He paused. “And watch out for their point defense. These things are full of guns for blasting missiles, and any one of those can fry your asses, too!”
McDaid couldn’t imagine the great dogfights of the battles between the Superpowers, squadron after squadron coming in, fighters locked in death struggles before they could even think about hitting the enemy capital ships. He’d dreamed of those days, but he was glad his people didn’t have to face such enemies now. The First Imperium’s defensive batteries would be bad enough.
McDaid tapped his throttle, altering his thrust angle as his eyes settled on a target. It was a big bastard, a Colossus, and it was coming forward, moving up behind the ship Midway had just destroyed. It was damaged, but not as badly as McDaid was looking for in a target. Still, Midway had just come through a hard fight, and he suspected Admiral Strand’s flagship needed all the help she could get facing another of the large battleships.
“Nova Four and Nova Five…let’s head in and give Midway a hand with that big bastard.”
“We’re with you, Leader.”
“Right behind you…”
McDaid jerked the throttle to the side, and then he pulled it back, blasting his engines at full. He could feel the g forces slamming into him, overwhelming his dampeners. His ship was blasting at better than 40g, he knew, though to him, it felt more like 8g. Still damned uncomfortable.
He winced as he shifted his body, his ribs feeling as though they might tear right out of his chest. Every muscle, every joint he’d ever injured hurt like hell…but he didn’t care. He was where he belonged, and in his mind, he was flying along with Admiral Hurley’s massive strike forces, reliving the golden age of the fighter.
He could see the flashes on his screen, the incoming fire from the target ship. He angled his fighter, port first, then starboard, varying the velocity slightly every few seconds as he did…evasive maneuvers he hoped would confound the enemy defensive fire. His ship jerked wildly as it continued toward the enemy vessel, and, at least for the moment, the incoming shots went well wide of his position.
McDaid tried to ignore the thickness of the incoming fire, but then one of his wingmen was hit. Nova Four was gone before he could even check to see if his pilot had ejected.
He’d seen losses before, in the fighting twelve years earlier, and now the romanticism he knew clouded his view of those terrible old battles cleared away. He knew he would lose more of his people in the next moments, and he saw pain now, more than glory, in the hundreds of pilots killed in those decade old struggles.
That didn’t matter, not enough, at least, to defer his squadrons from their duty. But, he knew it would hurt later. He didn’t have thousands of ships in space, nor vast legions of pilots. Every one of his small cadre was a familiar face…and their absences would weigh heavily on those who made it back.
He forced his mind back to the attack, watching the range drop. His fighters were armed with the newest weapons, straight from the labs of the Cutter Institute. The nuclear cluster bombs were designed to hit enemy ships with as much destructive force as possible…from a launch range so close, the targets would be unable to evade the tiny missiles.
McDaid’s hand tightened around the controls, his finger placed gently atop the firing stud. “Arm bombs,” he said grimly, nodding as the AI confirmed the order.
He had forty small nukes active in his bays now, twenty-kiloton jobs. Tiny by comparison to the gargantuan warheads of the ship-based missiles, but then McDaid and his people weren’t trying to place a detonation a kilometer from the target.
They were going for direct hits.
He watched as the ship grew on his screen, the range dropping below ten thousand kilometers…then below five thousand.
The ship shook back and forth as the AI aided his eva
sive maneuvers, a wild ride that seemed totally random, but still ended up with him on his chosen course.
Under two thousand.
He was well within launch range now. He could let his bombs fly any time he chose. But, he held them, and he continued forward, driving right at the huge battleship.
His surviving wingman was right behind him, also holding his own bombs. McDaid knew the other pilot wouldn’t fire until he did…and he felt a touch of guilt for that. The defensive fire was so thick it almost seemed he could walk forward on the laser blasts. It was one thing to risk his own neck…but to bring one of his pilots along on such a wild ride…
But, he kept pressing on.
One thousand kilometers.
He almost ordered the wingman to launch. He was going to take it in to knife-fighting range, but he didn’t expect anyone else to follow him so recklessly.
He swerved again, a gut impulse…and one he suspected an instant later had saved him from the enemy fire.
You’re too close…do this…now…
He hesitated just an instant longer…and he pressed the firing stud.
His fighter lurched as it launched its payload, but he hardly noticed. His hand was tightly gripped around the throttle, pulling back already with all he had, not entirely sure he’d done it in time to clear the looming ship up ahead.
He held his breath…and then he realized he’d made it. He felt an instant’s relief, and then he looked around, eyes frantically searching the screen, looking for sight of his wingman. His heart sank, and for a moment, he resigned himself to the loss of both of his comrades…but, then a small dot appeared, obscured at first by the radiation surrounding the target. It was Nova Five. They both had made it.
He checked the scanning reports, growing impatient almost immediately as the AI compiled the data and delivered a damage assessment. A hit.
No…four hits.
The enemy battleship was surrounded by nuclear fury. The First Imperium hulls were built from a dark matter infused substance, one of the few things Earth Two science had been unable to truly decipher yet. It was far stronger than any other known metal, but against the energies released by the fission bombs, it gave way, sections melting, even vaporizing wherever one of the warheads impacted.