by Ian Douglas
“The United States of North America,” Denoix replied, “formally renounced those lands long ago. It is the Confederation’s legal responsibility—it is our right—to take control of failed states and restore both law and productivity.”
“Then I don’t see that we have much to talk about, monsieur. We’re taking back the Periphery. And we’re not going to let you or the Sh’daar bully us into giving up the technology that ensures our survival.”
It was an old and bitter argument. With the collapse of America’s economic base in the twenty-second century, the country hadn’t been able to save the rapidly submerging coastal cities. The Periphery had been abandoned, save for those few rugged individualists who’d insisted on staying behind, staying with their homes. Of course, Geneva hadn’t shown much interest in the Periphery either . . . at least not until now, as the USNA began to drain the swamps and regrow the buildings, restoring the lost cities to better than before.
As for the technology issue, the Sh’daar Ultimatum of 2367 had demanded that Humankind restrict the growth of those key technologies—the “GRIN” technologies—that were believed to be the gateway to the Vinge Singularity.
But GRIN technologies were also vital to the survival and the continued growth of humanity, to its transformation from a juvenile species to maturity. Obeying the Sh’daar command would mean lowering humanity’s defenses, leaving the Earth vulnerable to an all-out offensive by the Sh’daar’s clients. Nor did Koenig want to be the USNA leader who’d surrendered to the alien demands after almost seven decades.
Damn it, twenty years ago the Sh’daar had been terrified of the human battlegroup when it had dropped into their pint-sized galaxy 800 million years in the past. Their consternation had led to a ceasefire that had lasted nearly twenty years.
Earth needed to learn just what the Sh’daar were afraid of, and find a way to take advantage of it.
They would get nowhere, though, if they let the Pan-Europeans take the lead.
“A pity,” Denoix said. “North America will find itself facing both the rest of Earth and our new galactic allies. How long do you think America can hold out against such odds?”
“Long enough for you to recognize our independence.”
“That, my dear Koenig, will never happen. Earth must be united if she is to take her rightful place within the Collective.” He gave an expressive, Gallic shrug. “Well, I had to give you the chance. There’s nothing more I can do for you now. The United States of North America will be brought into the Earth Confederation, which in turn will be absorbed by the Sh’daar Collective. A pity so many must die to satisfy your ego.”
My ego? Koenig almost laughed at that. Instead, he decided to try to nudge Denoix into divulging a little more information. “Does that mean you’re planning on melting more cities?”
“The historical record, Koenig, will prove that you ordered the destruction of Columbus in an attempt to paint the Earth Confederation as the perpetrators of atrocities. It is possible that several American cities will be dissolved in clouds of nano-D. I do truly hope that this will not be the case. . . .”
And the virtual image vanished, the connection broken.
Koenig was back in his office, blinking in the harsh light. “Son of a bitch,” he said, with considerable feeling. “Son of a bitch . . .”
Chapter Seven
5 March 2425
USNA CVS America
Emergence, Outer Sol System
0620 hours, TFT
Emergence . . . and the tightly warped bubble of metaspace surrounding the star carrier America collapsed in a burst of raw light. The ship drifted Solward, nearly 20 astronomical units from a pale and distance-shrunken sun. Around her, the other ships of the battlegroup dropped into normal space, shedding their pseudovelocity in blasts of raw photons: the John Young and the Ramirez first, followed—as the light announcing their arrival crawled across intervening space to reach America’s sensors—by the Edmonton, the Spruance and the lumbering Shenandoah.
Gray let out a pent-up breath of heartfelt relief. He was an admiral only provisionally, on sufferance, and probably quite temporarily. President Koenig had bumped him up to flag rank so that he could command the entire six-ship formation of CBG-40. He didn’t have nearly enough time as an O-6—a Navy captain—to justify that big a jump in command authority, and he fully expected to resume his role as America’s captain under a new admiral once he returned Earthside.
But it was good to be returning with his entire tiny command intact. Quite apart from the loss of life and the failure of the mission, if he’d lost any ships out there at Omega Centauri, the moment he returned to Earth he’d have been called on the carpet to explain himself. No matter how the inquiry went, his chances of another promotion down the line—or even of holding a captain’s command—would have become slim to nonexistent.
So far as Gray was concerned, though, the important thing was that he’d not lost anyone on the mission—not even Lieutenant Walton, the young pilot who’d volunteered to make the up-close flyby of the Rosette wormhole. The data he’d brought back would keep the physics people on Earth happily busy for years . . . and might yet provide a clue or two about the identity of the Rosette Aliens.
“All task-force vessels accounted for, Admiral,” Commander Wilson told him.
“So I see. Inform all vessels to close up on America, and prepare to accelerate in-system.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” There was a hesitation. “Admiral?”
“What is it?”
“I’m also picking up a SAR beacon. Range . . . six AUs, low and just off the starboard bow. The signal is very weak. . . .”
Gray opened a three-D navigational plot in his mind. Black space surrounded him, the tiny yellow glare of the sun ahead . . . with five green stars scattered around the carrier at varying distances. Ahead, circling the sun, the orbital paths of planets, major asteroids, and deep-space colonies and facilities were picked out in primary colors; nearest was the orbit of Saturn, with the planet itself a tiny, ringed toy 7 AUs ahead.
And yes . . . there it was. Weak, as Wilson had said, a minute orange pinpoint winking on and off just this side of Saturn. America’s AI filled in navigational data as he requested it; the target was a disabled USNA fighter—a Starhawk—and it was on an outbound drift from the immediate vicinity of Saturn . . . about 1AU—150,000,000 kilometers—from the planet, and drifting at a quarter million kilometers per hour.
The encrypted fleet tag ID’d the fighter as a Starhawk with VF-910, a squadron currently based at Enceladus. The pilot was listed as Lieutenant Frank Gallagher, life support was minimal, and the craft had been adrift for . . . gods! Twenty-two days! There were life signs, though, faint and slow.
“Medical department,” Gray said.
“Yes, Admiral.” It was the voice of Dr. Haynes, America’s senior medical officer.
“Are you getting these readings? From the streaker up ahead?” Streaker was the term used for fighters disabled in a fight, sent drifting at high speed across space.
“I am, yes. Low heart, low respiration. Minimal brainwave activity. It looks like he’s been put into nanomedical suspension.”
“Warm up a treatment bed, Doctor. I’m sending out a SAR.”
The DinoSARs, one of America’s two Search and Rescue squadrons, was tasked with tracking down streakers and rescuing the pilots. The question here, Gray thought, was why no one had come after Lieutenant Gallagher from Enceladus Station. Twenty-two days . . .
The guy had only survived thanks to nanomedical suspension. Once he’d realized no one was coming out after him, he would have ordered his fighter’s AI to inject him with a variety of nanobots programmed for survival intervention. Freitas respirocytes would have provided him with oxygen over the long haul, while cleansing the blood of carbon dioxide and other wastes. Some ’bots would have moved into his medulla ob
longata, drastically slowing his heart rate, respiration, and maintaining his blood pressure. Others coursed through his circulatory system by the billions, maintaining his blood chemistry almost literally molecule by molecule. Perhaps most critical, others were programmed to migrate to his hypothalamus and suppress certain key nerve centers, putting him into a coma. Asleep, he wouldn’t go crazy locked up in a tiny cockpit for day upon day upon claustrophobic day.
His AI, meanwhile, would be watching for friendly ships. It would be another fifty minutes before the light announcing America’s arrival in-system reached the derelict and could be seen by the fighter’s sensor arrays. By that time, a SAR tug would be closing on the fighter, and the battlegroup would be close enough behind to learn what the hell had happened out here.
But Gray had a nasty feeling that he already knew. There were several bases in Saturn space—Titan, Enceladus, the Huygens Ringstation. They wouldn’t have been heavily defended, and the Confederation might well have decided that they were easy targets. That drifting Starhawk might be part of a USNA squadron dispatched to Saturn space to protect American assets out here.
And if a SAR tug hadn’t recovered him, it suggested that the base or bases had fallen.
“Pryfly, Bridge,” Gray said. “What do we have ready to go?”
“The Demons and the Knights are on ready-one, Admiral,” said the voice of Captain Connie Fletcher, America’s CAG in Primary Flight Control. “That’s ready for launch in one minute, on your word.”
VFA-96, the Black Demons, was one of America’s six fighter/strike squadrons—twelve of the older SG-92 Starhawk fighters. VFA-215, The Black Knights, consisted of twelve of the much newer and more modern SG-101 Velociraptors. Two squadrons were always up on “ready-one,” meaning they could be launched within one minute, each time the battlegroup emerged from metaspace, a precaution in case the carrier emerged into enemy-controlled space.
There was a very good chance that that had just happened.
“Launch both squadrons,” Gray said. “Clear me a path into Saturn space. Bring the other strike squadrons up to ready alert. And put a SAR tug on that Starhawk adrift six AUs ahead.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral.” There was a pause. “Initiating fighter launch sequence now. . . .”
VFA-96, Black Demons
Saturn Space
0625 hours, TFT
“Bay doors are open,” the voice of PriFly said in her head. “VFA-96, you are clear for launch.”
Lieutenant Megan Connor made a final check of her ship’s systems. Everything showed green, green and go. It was, she decided, about damned time she saw some action. Being on ready-one meant sitting out the hours already suited up and linked in to your fighter . . . just waiting.
“Copy, America,” Commander Luther Mackey’s voice replied. “Okay, Demons. On my command! In five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . drop!”
Connor’s feeling of weight vanished. She’d been dangling in her harness, facedown, watching unwinking stars sweep past the opening below her, subject to the artificial gravity of the hab module rotating steadily about America’s spine. As the launch bay magnetics switched off, however, she went into free fall, dropping out and down and into a sudden, yawning immensity of space. Hurtling out from the carrier’s central axis, she cleared the curving, deep-shadowed loom of America’s shield cap. To her left, Saturn showed as a dazzlingly bright golden star close beside a small but brilliant Sol emerging from behind the planet in a dazzling burst of light.
Ahead, the green icons marking the Velociraptors of VFA-215 were spread out in the shape of a Y, four fighters to each arm of the formation. They were already accelerating. Connor swung her ship sharply through ninety degrees, then engaged her drive singularity, falling toward the planet six astronomical units ahead. She flashed past the vast, dark curve of America’s bow cap.
Astern, a lone SAR tug emerged from one of the side-by-side spinal launch tubes, flashing past the Starhawks and on after the now distant Black Knight Velociraptors.
“America CIC, this is Demon One,” Commander Mackey said on the tactical channel. “Handing off from PryFly. All Demons clear of the ship and formed up.”
“Copy, Demon One,” a new voice replied from America’s Combat Information Center. “Primary Flight Control confirms handoff to CIC. You are clear for maneuver.”
“Keep a nice, tight formation, now, Demons,” Mackey’s voice ordered, switched now to the squadron channel. “Let’s not let the damned Velocicrappers show us up! Everybody set?”
One by one, the voices of the other Starhawk pilots came in over the channel.
“Demon Five, ready to go.”
“Demon Seven, ready for acceleration.”
“Demon Eight, go.”
“Demon Six,” Connor said. “All green.”
The voices continued, filling out the Black Demons’ roster. Connor couldn’t help but think about one uncomfortable fact. After the Battle of Osiris, out at 70 Ophiuchi just four months ago, the Black Demons had been reduced to five pilots, including her . . . and she’d been the newbie, having been transferred to VFA-96 after her rescue from the Slan at Arianrhod. Lieutenants Don Gregory, Ted Nichols, and Joseph Kemper, plus the squadron CO, Luther Mackey. The other seven pilots all were newbs, replacements fresh out of pilot training at Oceana. They’d reported on board in time for America’s deployment to Omega Centauri, and in three months’ time had seen no action whatsoever.
It was a hell of a note when “Happy” Kemper—a bully and a bigot who rode Gregory incessantly for being a colonial and Connor for being an immigrant from the independent city of Atlantica—was more trusted, more of a friend than any of these kids. She didn’t like Kemper at all . . . but she would trust him to cover her tail in a furball anytime.
She couldn’t say that about Rodriguez or Stuart or the others. Combat veterans tended to hold the newcomers, the FNGs, at arm’s length for a time, until they’d had the chance to prove themselves. They seemed to be pretty sharp, but the only way for them to prove it was to mix it up in a furball.
No matter. It looked like they were going to get their chance today.
“CIC, Demon One,” Mackey said. “Black Demons ready for acceleration. On five . . . and four . . . and three . . . and two . . . and one . . . punch it!”
And the sky ahead grew strange.
Virtual Combat Center
Colorado Springs, USNA
0810 hours, CST
“Welcome to Vee-Double-Cee, people. I’m Major Corbett, and we call this facility Mindwar Mountain. Make yourselves comfortable.”
Shay Ashton looked around, then grew herself a chair out of the deck’s nanomatrix. Forty-some other military personnel had entered the cavernous room with her and were making seats for themselves. During the past week, she’d gotten to know a few of them . . . but none yet were what she could think of as friends. Not yet. Most were from the USNA and had the usual disdain for Prims from the Periphery. A few—Mustoll and Cabot and Dewitt—were from the Periphery, like her, but like most people from the various coastal ruins, they mistrusted strangers—and usually with damned good reason. It would take a while to break down the barriers and get to know them. And Ashton wasn’t sure yet that the effort would be worth it.
She was still questioning why she’d changed her mind and reported to the recruiting center in Pittsburgh. She was already regretting the decision and wondering if there was a way to back out. Not bloody likely, she thought, looking around at the unyielding ferrocrete walls of the underground command center. She’d thoughtclicked her acceptance of a dozen different security forms before she’d even begun her training; this place was so secret it did not officially exist . . . though the chances were good that the enemy knew all about it.
With the Global Net’s massive interconnectivity, there were few real secrets anymore.
“Ladie
s and gentlemen,” Major Corbett said as the crowd murmurs and rustlings died away, “your training commences now. Starting today, and for the next two weeks, you are going to be hammered with a great deal of heavy DD.”
DD—data downloads. Most military training nowadays began with a download program. The real work came after, with the integration and the physical practice.
“Virtual warfare,” Corbett continued, “is unlike regular combat, and you will need to develop new reflexes, new attitudes, new ways of thinking in order to be successful. I want you all to relax and get comfortable, then thoughtclick the new link that you’ll find riding your in-heads.”
Ashton did as she was told, using her cranial implants to soften her chair and stretch it back. A new icon winked at her from within her mind and she thoughtclicked it. Data began to flow.
Much of military training was now a matter of downloading information, storing it first within in-head RAM, and eventually transferring it to organic memory. Physical skills had to be physically practiced; muscle memory was more than stored information. But virtual combat, as it was being explained through these downloads, was far less physical than it was mental.
In fact, virtual combat was very much like the virtual reality games that had been so popular for the last several centuries. A scene—a kind of virtual landscape—was created by the AI moderating the operation, and the virtual warriors maneuvered through in-head terrain to disable electronic defenses and hack into enemy networks. Fighter pilots were favored for this type of engagement because they already had the necessary physical reflexes . . . and because they wouldn’t be disconcerted by holding on target, corkscrewing into an inverted loop.