Dark Matter (Star Carrier, Book 5)

by Ian Douglas

  Humankind, Koenig believed, possessed one vital advantage in its struggle with the Sh’daar, something he privately thought of as the Greek advantage. Koenig was a thoroughgoing student of history, and was among other things fascinated by the spectacular victories of the ancient Greeks over the far larger and more diverse Persian armies at Marathon, at Plataea, and, later, by Alexander the Great over Darius. Like the Greek city states of 2900 years earlier, modern Earth was far from united . . . but the member species of the Sh’daar Collective had so little in common with one another that communications—even facilitated by Agletsch pidgins—must be very nearly impossible.

  So far, Humankind had managed to use that essential disunity, beating Sh’daar client species in turn rather than en masse. The question, though, was whether the enemy would learn from those defeats and get their collective act together. If they did, when they did, humanity would be in very serious trouble indeed.

  Somehow, Earth needed to unite, and then end the Sh’daar threat once and for all. If Konstantin could pull that off with memegeneering, well and good. If he could not, then Humankind’s long-term survival was very much in doubt.

  And so far as Koenig could tell, Humankind was running out of useful options.

  Chapter Five

  12 February 2425

  Washington, D.C.

  USNA Periphery

  1220 hours, EST

  “Damn it, Lieutenant, we need trained pilots! Lots of them! You were one of our best! It’s your duty to volunteer!”

  Shay Ashton looked the small, gray man up and down, almost openly sneering. “If service is mandatory, how the hell can I volunteer?” she said. “You can go to hell!”

  “Lieutenant Ryan—”

  “It’s Ashton, not Ryan,” she snapped. She’d married after she’d returned to the D.C. Ruins, though Fred had been killed ten years later by marauders from across the broad and tide-swollen Potomac. This USNA government agent wouldn’t understand. To him, taking the name of the person you married was quaint, a holdover from a long-gone era . . . or, worse, that she was a filthy “monogie”—a pervert who dared to believe in monogamous marriage.

  She saw emotion flicker across the man’s face—disdain, possibly disgust. But in the lawless territories of the Periphery, cast off centuries ago by the rest of the country, monogamy had carried a certain survival value . . . two people so closely bonded that each could watch the back of the other in a way not possible for complicated line marriages, polyamories, or ménages a politique.

  Behind her, a city, at once ancient and newly born, was growing skyward from mangrove swamp and muck. The relentless global rising of the oceans four centuries ago had finally flooded the low-lying regions along the U.S. coast, forcing their evacuation. But not everyone had been willing to leave their home. . . .

  For centuries since then, the stay-behinds, the “swampies,” had inhabited the former capital of the old United States, fish-farming among the tangled mangrove swamps now growing along what once had been the Washington Mall. When the US had reorganized itself as the United States of North America and as a founding member of the Earth Confederation, the Periphery—including low-lying and flooded coastal areas like Manhattan, Boston, and Washington, D.C.—had been abandoned by a government unable to afford the massive costs and effort of beating back the encroaching sea. The people still living in those areas had adapted, as people do, living in the ruins without modern technology or medical care, making their own law, and becoming fiercely independent in the process.

  The Periphery had become a major political issue, however, when Geneva had attempted to seize those regions, to take them over as a trust. The inhabitants had fought back an assault three months ago; the massive, broken shell of a Confederation Jotun troop flier still lay on its side in the shallow waters of the Washington Mall, partially obscured by the enthusiastic tangle of mangroves around it. Ashton had somehow found herself in command of the ragged band that had defended the Ruins, holding out until USNA aerospace forces had arrived to turn the tide decisively in the defenders’ favor.

  Since then, USNA troops and equipment had been pouring into the areas around both D.C. and Baltimore, and reportedly up in the Manhattan Ruins too. Ashton was grateful for the help . . . but gratitude did have its limits. She hadn’t asked for the government’s help.

  “Whether you like it or not,” the government man said, “the USNA has taken over direct control of the Peripheries. You are citizens of the USNA now, and as such you have both rights and responsibilities. That is especially true of former military personnel such as yourself.”

  She held a middle finger up under his nose. “See this, Government Man?” she snapped. “Sit and rotate!”

  “Lieutenant Ashton—”

  “I retired, damn it! I put in my time, and I retired, okay? You do not own me!”

  The man nodded toward the downed Jotun. “Looks like you’ve been doing a pretty good job of it since your retirement.”

  In fact, that troop flier had been brought down by a flight of USNA Starhawk fighters. But she wasn’t going to mention that.

  “This is my home, okay? I have a right to defend it.”

  “Granted. And we’re offering you a chance to make sure the Confederation doesn’t try to grab your home from you again.”

  “You can fight your own damned war. I’m not playing.”

  The man sighed. “Well, I’m not going to force you. USNA jurisdiction is still . . . a bit fuzzy out here in the Periphery, and will be until we formally re-annex it. I will ask you why you won’t help us, though. You were an outstanding Starhawk pilot. Excellent record . . .”

  “Like I said . . . I put in my time. And they need me here. This is . . . home.”

  “Okay. Let’s leave it at this.” He focused a thought, sending Ashton a mind-to-mind eddress, which her in-head circuitry dutifully recorded and logged. “We want you to volunteer for an electronic incursion into Geneva. It’s a no-risk op; you’ll go in clean and virtual. Your fighter skills are very much needed in this operation, and if you succeed, you will ensure Washington’s freedom from the Confederation. If you can see clear to changing your mind, give me a yell. Fair enough?”

  She nodded, but reluctantly. “Ain’t gonna happen, though.”

  “The USNA is taking back the Periphery, Lieutenant,” the agent said. “Sooner or later, all of this will be under our control, our full control, again. Since the destruction of Columbus, there’s even been . . . talk of bringing the nation’s capital back here. Like it was a few centuries ago. It’ll mean unprecedented prosperity for your people . . . medical coverage . . . full access to the Global Net. There are some major advantages for you in this deal.”

  “There’re advantages in staying independent, too.”

  “Indeed. If you can keep that independence.” He didn’t add that to win independence, Ashton and her neighbors would have to fight against the USNA.

  He didn’t need to.

  As he walked away, Ashton wondered if he’d really meant that last unspoken thought as a threat. As far as she was concerned, there wasn’t a decidollar’s difference between the United States of North America and the Earth Confederation. She’d served both when the USNA had been a part of Geneva’s global hegemony, and her loyalties had been to the other members of her squadron and to her shipmates on board the America, not to such abstract concepts as duty, country, or even freedom.

  Hell, what had the USNA done for her or her fellow swampies of late?

  Well, other than showing up at the last possible second and helping to drive off the Confederation invasion three months ago. . . .

  And it was true that the government—the USNA government, not the ragged committee of swampies who’d been making decisions here for the past few centuries—had been sending a lot of high-tech help after the precipitous departure of the Confeds. The old Capitol dom
e had been freed from the enveloping shrouds of kudzu and tropical vines, water levels were down so far that most of the Mall was now dry land, and three-meter dikes had been grown along the ancient shores of the Potomac, allowing the standing water to the east to be pumped out. There was even a detachment of USNA Marines in place across the river, now, guarding what to them was a sacred site . . . the ancient Iwo Jima Memorial, which now flew, not the flag of the USNA, but the old U.S. flag under which the Marines once had fought during centuries past. As a side benefit of that deployment, there’d been no more marauder raids on the D.C. Ruin settlements from the Virginia side of the river. Ten years ago, Ashton had led an armed team across the river to avenge Fred’s death, and had wiped out one nest of those snakes, but new marauder clans had shown up during the past few years.

  Maybe there were advantages to having the USNA government renew its claims along the coast after all.

  Angrily, she shook off the thought. The government was the proverbial camel with its nose worming in under the side of the tent. Let it in just a little, and pretty soon the whole damned camel was in there, shouldering you out into the desert cold.

  No. . . .

  Blue Seven, VF-910

  Saturn Space

  1315 hours, TFT

  Lieutenant Frank Gallagher accelerated at nearly 10,000 Gs, streaking up from the tiny white, icy moon and into open space. Above him, Saturn hung huge and vast and beautiful, filling half the sky, her rings a diamond-hard and ruler-straight white scratch across all of heaven.

  “Enceladus Base!” he called. “Blue One clear and accelerating!”

  “Copy, Blue One,” the voice of Enceladus Flight Control replied in his head.

  “Joining formation.” The three other Starfighters of Blue Flight drifted in open formation a few thousand kilometers ahead and he moved to join them. “Okay, Blues,” he said. “Keep it tight.”

  “Blue Two, affirmative.” That was Lieutenant Karyl Joyce.

  “Blue Four, ready to boost.” Lieutenant Dwayne Tanner.

  “Blue Three, ready.” Lieutenant Victor Truini.

  “Blue Flight formed up and ready for formation intercept,” Gallagher announced.

  “Copy, Blue Flight. Unknowns now bearing at one-seven-three plus twelve, range two-niner-five thousand. Unknowns have fired on Red Flight, and are confirmed hostile. You have weapons free, I say again, weapons free.”

  “Copy weapons free. Coming to one-seven-three plus one-two.”

  “Go get ’em, Frank.”

  “No prob, Salad Bowl. Keep the coffee warm for us back there.”

  “Will do.” The voice hesitated. “We’re reading the hostiles now as twelve Krag-sixties. Range now two-five-zero thousand. The big boys are moving in, range one-point-seven-seven million.”

  Not good. “Copy.”

  The Pan-European Krag-sixties—KRG-60 Todtadlers, or Death Eagles—were as fast, as maneuverable, and as heavily armed as modern USNA Velociraptors, which meant that they were much better than Blue Flight’s older Starhawks, especially at long range.

  They would have to get in tight to make a difference.

  But twelve of them! Blue Flight consisted of four Starhawks, and Red Flight of four more, assuming they were all still operational. The USNA defensive contingent at Enceladus was going to be badly outclassed in this engagement—and there were still the “big boys,” the Confederation capital ships, to contend with.

  “Blue Flight, engage sperm mode,” Gallagher ordered. The external hulls of the SG-92 Starhawks softened and flowed, morphing into their high-velocity configuration—a rounded body with a long, slender spike at the tail. Streamlining wasn’t normally a factor in spaceflight—at least, not at normal planetary velocities. But minute flecks of debris—stray hydrogen atoms, for the most part—were definitely a consideration at higher velocities.

  And, more to the point, the region of space close to Enceladus was not hard vacuum. The dazzlingly white moon was imbedded inside the thickest part of Saturn’s E ring; in fact, specks of frozen water streaming out from Enceladus were responsible for creating the E Ring, and for keeping it in existence. Though local space was still hard vacuum by terrestrial standards, flying through that blizzard of ice particles at high-G accelerations would be like plowing through an atmosphere of molasses.

  “On my mark, boys and girl,” Gallagher told his flight. “Fifty-kay gees in three . . . and two . . . and one . . . and boost!”

  Powerful, tightly wrapped balls of warped space flickered into existence off each Starhawk’s bow. In existence for only a tiny fraction of a second, each microsingularity lasted just long enough to bend space ahead, allowing the fighter to fall forward. By continuing to flicker on and off, the drive allowed the craft to bootstrap itself to higher and higher velocities . . . and since the fighter was in freefall, following the local curvature of space itself, there were none of the unpleasant side effects of acceleration—like having the pilot smeared across his acceleration couch in a thin, red stain. At 50,000 gravities, a Starhawk could nudge up against the speed of light in about ten minutes. They wouldn’t be boosting for that long, however. The idea was to engage the incoming enemy, not blow right past him at a high percentage of c. The fighters’ AIs cut off acceleration when the closing velocity was up to 5,000 kilometers per second, and the enemy was thirty seconds away.

  “Prepare to engage,” Gallagher called. “Arm Kraits. Spread for area effect . . . but watch out for our Red Flight. Blue Four, hold yours in reserve.”

  “Copy, Blue Leader.”

  Kraits were nuke-tipped VG-10 antiship missiles. They were particularly effective against capital ships, but a near miss would fry a fighter’s circuitry and the expanding plasma sphere might shred hull matrix if the detonation was close enough. They weren’t as powerful or as long-ranged as the newer Boomslangs or Taipans, but they could do the job well enough with good tactics.

  Gallagher watched the red points of light representing the enemy fighters drift across an in-head window, each accompanied by a small block of text describing the target’s mass, direction, speed, and acceleration. The friendlies out there were in full retreat . . . three of them dropping back toward Enceladus at high-G. A white sphere of light blossomed . . . and then there were two friendlies left. The hostiles kept closing.

  Damn it, they should have ordered Red Flight to open up on the unknowns as soon as they’d become visible. Who the hell else had the Salad Bowl—the squadron’s pet slang name for Enceladus Station—been expecting out here?

  He selected four Kraits, marked detonation points on his in-head to create a spread across the expected paths of the Confederation fighters, and triggered the release. “Fox One!” he announced. “Blue One, missiles away!”

  “Blue Three! Fox One!”

  “Blue Two! Fox One!”

  Fox One was the code phrase indicating the launch of smart missiles—fire-and-forget warheads equipped with AIs to guide them to their targets. Released from the fighters’ bellies, the missile drives switched on an instant after they were clear to avoid changing the fighters’ vectors, sending them streaking into darkness. One vanished two seconds later, wiped from the sky by a Todtadler’s particle beam, but the others detonated in a pulsing one-two-three blossoming of white light. The enemy fighters had scattered off their path as soon as they’d detected the launch . . . but the spreads launched by Truini and Joyce had been placed to box the Todtadlers in, and as additional fireballs flared in the distance, two of the enemy fighters vanished, while a third, torn by an expanding plasma fireball, tumbled helplessly out of control.

  But there were missiles incoming now, answering Blue Flight’s volley. Gallagher’s AI pegged the designation as AM/AS-9, which carried the USNA code name Black Mamba. The AM/AS designation stood for antimatter/antiship; rather than a nuclear warhead, it packed several grams of antimatter in a magnetic containment
capsule, enough to generate a multi-megaton blast laced with deadly X-ray and gamma radiation. There were eight of them, pushing a 100,000 Gs. The Pan-Europeans, it appeared, were out for blood.

  “Blue Four!” Gallagher called. “Try to block those Mambas!”

  “Copy, Blue Leader! Fox One . . .”

  For several endless seconds, two sets of artificial intelligences vied with each other tactically, each trying to outguess the other, feinting, dodging, putting on sudden bursts of acceleration, or decelerating sharply to spoof its opposite numbers. Then nuclear flashes erupted against the black of space, deathly silent, and half of the Mambas vanished in the blasts.

  Four kept coming, their AIs seeking out the formation of USNA Starhawks for the kill.

  “Blue Flight, go to E-and-E!” Gallagher yelled, breaking hard high and to port. E and E—Evasion and Escape. It was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

  Sharp turns with a singularity fighter were always dicey, requiring the drive to anchor the gravity ball and allow the fighter to whip around it into the new desired course. The tricky part was keeping the fighter smoothly riding the gravity well’s sides without slipping in close enough to be caught in the microsingularity’s tidal effects. Maneuvering in a singularity fighter was completely unlike flying an atmospheric wing. Rather than banking and turning on air, it was space itself that was being twisted, allowing one vector to be shifted to another in a 90-degree turn, or even through a full one-eighty. Do it right and you slid around the artificial black hole smoothly, the sky wheeling past your head and you didn’t even feel the turn because you were still in free fall. Do it wrong and in an instant your fighter would be shredded into metallic confetti . . . a process technically known as spaghettification.