by David Drake
Roj looked unhappily at the fire-control board. “Minerva, is that damn gadget working? This says those have only a fifty-fifty chance of hitting.”
Minerva snorted. “I know. The damn thing’s not a fortuneteller, not yet, no matter what the science jocks say. It refuses to interleave any tighter than one-to-three with my onboard nav systems when the problem is this complex–!”
Roj swore softly. “It’s getting worse,” he said, looking at the board’s screen as suddenly the six blips turned into eighteen. “Tell me this is a system malfunction. Please.”
“No such luck,” Minerva said. “Those damn ships are carrying. Half a sec–” The telltales for her maximum sensor array came alive as she stretched her scanners to the utmost. “Frigates,” Minerva said. “Unmanned. Plasma weapons, nothing else. But being smaller, they’re going to be more maneuverable than their mommies–”
Roj slammed one hand down on his com control. “There you are, gentlemen,” he said to the lot back in the ready room. “This is a fairly simplistic simulation of Syndicate attack frigates–or, at least, what Intelligence reckon they look like. Plasma weapons, nothing more. I don’t want to see any of them there when we’re done. You have three minutes. Commence.”
“Reports from the three missiles,” Minerva said. “All clean misses.”
“Goddammit, what’s wrong with the things? Can’t they even home properly?”
“Countermeasures, I should think,” Minerva said. The new set of blips, the smaIler one, was getting closer. “Working on it. Roj, this wretched excuse for an adding machine can’t multitask! I can use it for nav, or for weapons, or for cryptography, but not all three! Not even two at once! How many of the miserable things am I going to have to have installed?”
“Yet another design by the lowest bidder,” Roj muttered. “Better concentrate on the countermeasures. Solve those, and you’ve got the rest of the problem solved as well.”
“And shoot with what?” Minerva groaned, making the changeover. “My regular computers are barely up to dealing with these damned orbital elements as it is–ships aren’t supposed to move this way!”
“Ah, but you’ve got us,” Roj said, trying desperately to sound cheerful.
“Te morituri salutamus,” Minerva groaned, and launched another three torpedoes.
The little ships were arrowing in closer, in a swarm at first, then dividing as their parent ships had. They turned even more quickly, curved even more tightly–tight hyperbolas that looked terribly wrong, but worked nonetheless. Like a swarm of bees they began circling Minerva, looking for a weakness in the ablative hull—
—and not without reaction. Fire lanced out from six different places in her hull, tracking with the little ships. One of them blew in a wild burst of fuel and air and reaction mass, a brief sun that Minerva swiftly left behind her. The other ships backed off slightly, but still matched her course, and buzzed around threateningly, firing Iances of blue fire, probing for a weakness.
“How much of that can you take?” Roj said softly, bringing one of the missile launchers on line at his console and considering each of several of the big ships as a possible target.
“Not very bloody much,” Minerva said. Her hull shuddered once more as another spread of torpedoes left.
“Still working on the countermeasures. You want to steer these?”
“Will do.” Roj stared at the projected trajectories of the big Syndicate ships on his fire-control screen, let his eyes go a little unfocused, tried to feel which way they were going rather than to reason it out. One of his instructors had once spent quite a while trying to explain to him that this was an effective way to hyperprocess data. It had seemed iffy at the time, but it was worth a try, since there was no way in hell that he was going to be able to match Minerva’s computers in plain old reasoning power.
“There,” he said, slapping one course in, and “There,” adding another, and a third—
The ship rocked. Minerva cried out.
“What is it?”
“Nuke,” she gasped after a moment. “Just a little too close. A few eyes burned out. Still working on their countermeasures.”
Roj began to sweat bullets. He had only heard Minerva make a sound like that once or twice before: it sorted ill with her usual acerbic invulnerability. While hammering on the fire-control console with one hand, he slammed the other down on the com control and roared, “Who the fuck let that one by? Peason, was that you? Never mind, I don’t care who it was, but do you realize that would have burned out Minerva’s eyes? Do you know how much those optics cost? Do you know how long you would have to work as the deck-scrubbers you’re all equipped to be before you replaced even one of them? And do you realize that the colonel is going to look at the tapes of this little party, and the odds of you lot ever sitting in the front seat of anything more advanced than a spacescooter are getting fairly dim? Seven saints in a sidecar, I can’t even give you dimwits a motherfucking videogame to play without you shafting it every way from Sunday–”
On the fire-control screen there was a bloom of green fire. “Got one,” Minerva said, sounding a little breathless. “Keep at it, boyo, you’re doing better than I’ve been. God damn this miserable electronic abacus straight to–”
There was a screech of delight from the ready room as another of the little attack ships ran through one of the waist-mounted plasma beams and sliced itself in two like an abruptly explosive cheese. And then another howl as a second beam stitched its way across the hull of yet another of the small frigates, catching it right in the engines. The detonation was silent but impressive.
Roj unloaded another three torpedoes, felt them fire, studied the screen, went unfocused, adjusted their trajectories again, not quite toward where he thought the next two of the big Syndies were going to be–just a little off, that seemed to be the way–
“Got the algorithm of their countermeasures,” Minerva said. “I think–”
Another terrible shudder of the ship. “That’s the first layer of ablative,” Minerva said, sounding worried. “Another one in that spot will not be good.”
“How not good?”
“How long can you breathe vacuum?”
“Noted. Peason, that was you,” Roj shouted. “I saw you, mister, don’t deny it! Can you please, if it’s not too much fucking trouble, not crash your used enemy vessels into the one you’re riding in? Thank you ever so much.” He put an extra little turn on one of the torpedoes he was steering, as it flew. The big Syndic ship it was aiming for twisted impossibly, twisted past it, then back onto course again. And blew up.
“Holy shit, how did that happen?” Roj muttered.
“You forgot your other torpedo. I think. Almost, almost ready. Aha! So that’s how they’ve been doing it, the clever little swine! How dare they wave-shift my own tachyar! We’ll see about that. Roj, for all sweet sakes cover my back, here come another two–!”
“Heads up now, you assholes, this is it,” Roj shouted, “don’t blow it! Get those little guys off our case! Now, Gillibrand, goddammit”–and he grabbed at the fire-control console as the hull shuddered and boomed again, the worst yet–“get your thumb out of whatever orifice it’s in at the moment and onto the firing button, yes, you too, Grabber, come on, shoot at something even if you can’t uncross your eyes long enough to hit it, come on, come on–!” He was Ioading every torp that Minerva had not already declared dedicated, there were only three of those ships left now, the terrible sharp double-arrow shapes coming at them two and one, two of them arcing apart from each other to be the pincers, the third coming down from “above” like the sting in the scorpion’s tail, and he saw how the sting was curving slightly up and away to make him think it was going to abort the run, but he could clearly see where it was going instead. “Come on, come on!” he shouted to the kids in the ready room, and slapped the last course corrections into his torps and let them go free–
–and all the images in the screen changed, blipped suddenly a degree
or more in one direction or another–all the wrong directions–
“True enemy positions displayed,” Minerva said dispassionately. “Correcting weapon assignments—”
–and there was one bloom of expanding signal on the screen.
And another.
The third kept coming.
“Clean miss,’” said Minerva, but this time she sounded almost cheerful. “Doesn’t matter, Roj, I’ve got their number–“
There was whooping and screaming coming through the com circuit from the ready room. “All right, you lot, knock it off,” Roj said, glancing at his screen, “you still have one of them lef—”
The motion caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. The one screen that mimicked “the windshield” was showing a needle-nosed shape, lozenge-sectioned, getting bigger and bigger and–
A line of blue fire hit it. It blew up.
The whole ship felt as if it had been kicked up and backward. The lights went out. There was a sound that Roj could feel all through his body, like a bass drum being beaten one hard stroke. He held his breath, wondering if he would ever get another chance at one. Then he let it out and yelled, “Minerva!”
No answer.
“Minerva!!”
And the lights came back on.
“You needn’t shout,” she said.
Roj looked at his screen. It was clear, blessedly clear and empty, except for the bloom of one more large explosion.
He hit the com switch again.
“Peason,” he said. “I may just let you live. Check with me in five minutes.”
* * *
“Another two weeks in overhaul,” Minerva grumbled. “For half an hour’s pleasure. I don’t know how I keep letting you get me in to these things.”
“Me!!”
“At least,” Minerva said, “the combined forces now have the countermeasures to the Syndicate’s ‘dislocation’ countermeasure. They’ll be shooting at the actual positions of the attacking ships–rather than the fake ones manufactured from Fleet tachyar signals.”
“Thanks to SIGISMUND.”
“That piece of crap,” Minerva said with a sniff.
“Yes,” Roj said, “the one you ordered six more of. I heard you talking to the Quartermasters’ office this morning.”
Minerva laughed softly. “And I heard you saying good-bye to your boys,” she said. “You old softie.”
Roj blushed profoundly. “Well, after all,” he said, “they did the job.”
“And they only fainted and screamed and cracked up a little,” said Minerva dryly, “when they found out.”
Roj blushed harder. “Well, what was I supposed to do? Lie to them?”
Minerva burst out laughing.
“Oh, no,” she said. “Not to them. And not to the class who are waiting for us ... I believe right about now. You’d better go let them in.”
“But the overhaul–!”
“About the only thing that was not broken during that run,” Minerva said with infinite regret, “was the simulator.”
Roj got up and headed for the airlock. “We must have a nuke left over here somewhere,” he said, “just a small one . . .”
Minerva’s laughter followed him all the way down to the door.
Articles of War
Article LXXXVII
Every Person in or Belonging to ... Navy, and borne on the books of any Ships in Commission, shall be subject to this Act; and all other Persons hereby made liable shall be triable and punishable under the Provisions of this Act.
Article LXXXIX
All other persons ordered to be received or being Passengers on board any ... ships shall be deemed to be persons subject to this Act, under such regulations as the Admiralty may from Time to Time direct.
Eventually the Fleet gathered its strength in the salient tipped by the two major Khalian worlds. Almost a million spacemen and Marines soon swarmed over or hovered above the home worlds of their former foe. Khalia itself proved a surprise to most of the personnel arriving. These new recruits, most unblooded in battle, expected to find a defeated and broken population. In assuming this they had overlooked the unique Khalian sense of warriors’ honor. To be defeated by a capable foe bore no disgrace; dishonor would have been to have not fought well. In every battle, every war, one side had to be the loser. To have fought well and lost had no stigma and affected Khalia’s population much less than it would have a human world.
Many Khalians offered their services to the Fleet. Most were assigned auxiliary posts, ones that didn’t require them to be armed. A few of their most-experienced fighters were posted to ships, though never in command or in key positions. The memory of the Weasels’ savage raids was too fresh to allow that level of trust. Only a very few were allowed to man ships of their own. Even these ships held a Fleet observer, who had a veto over the captain’s decision and control of a large bomb planted inaccessibly inside the ship’s engines.
When Khalia was occupied, hundreds of scientists and sociologists descended upon the planet. Their joint purpose was to determine how far the Fleet could trust the Khalian offer of service. Realizing that nothing except time would convince the Admiralty to trust their former foes, most of these scientists pursued “related” studies. It proved even more important that the Khalia were able to study these civilians. Unlike their tight-lipped military counterparts, the scientists were quite willing to discuss the expanse and strength found in the Alliance. Rather quickly the Khalia realized they had never really had a chance to defeat such a powerful enemy. Most then took the next step and came to the teeth-gnashing realization of how badly three generations of their race had been used.
The Khalian culture, seemingly inscrutable to the experts of the Fleet, was actually very similar to that of the pre-Roman Celts or the early Japanese. Both were heroic, bardic cultures whose members valued honor and reputation over even life itself. What confused the specialists was the high level of technology that had been grafted onto a basically primitive cultural pattern. While they looked for group psychosis and underlying gestalt awareness, the Khalia continued to hold a very straightforward grudge against humans that had set them up and left them in their time of greatest need.
The unrest caused by a baffling lack of trust by their new human allies confused and frustrated most Khalians. Veterans who had raided human colonies with near impunity failed to see why they were being left useless while the Alliance strained to import personnel from bases three months distant. Occasionally this resulted in violence. More often the casual, competitive violence inherent in a heroic culture exploded in the face of boys whose only other experience with physical danger was on the omni. Even after the Goodheart incident, the Fleet was slow to recognize the value of what they were being offered. As time passed some of these spurned warriors were unable to adjust to peace and joined those few remaining holdouts who had chosen piracy rather than surrender.
Occasionally rare individuals from both sides were able to find a degree of mutual understanding.
1.
ALONE and in the warm dark, Stone walked along the wet, narrow street of the Khalian village. His flex boots made little sound on the damp cobblestones. It was late, and low, heavy clouds filled the sky, threatening more summer rain to expand the puddles. The only lights were ancient electric pole-lamps casting dim pools at sporadic intervals, and the infrequent glows that shone from windows in the moss-covered rock buildings.
Stone among the stones. The thought brought a smile to his lips, if only a small one. Who would have ever thought that he would be here on Khalia, of all places?
From a public house fifty meters ahead, more light spilled into the street as the door swung open to allow a trio of Khalian males into the night. The door closed, shutting off the inside lights, but a small neon sign in Khalian above the portal gave off a pale blue shine that attracted insects. The local equivalent of moths flittered against the neon, casting ghostly shadows onto the street.
Stone had never und
erstood why his people called the Khalia “Weasels,” for they had always reminded him more of tusked pigs, like boars he had seen once in a zoo on Earth. Upright, dangerous, wild boars.
The way the three moved told Stone they had indulged in whatever chemical they favored to alter their consciousnesses. Stoned or plashed, and likely to be more than a little surprised to see a lone human walking the streets of their little town. Surprised and, just as likely, unhappy.
The man crossed the road, seeking to avoid contact with the trio of Khalians as they turned and started up the street in his direction. The war was over, the Khalia had surrendered, but even in his brief stay Stone had felt the smoldering resentment a hundred times over. He had chosen to walk from the spaceport to his destination, more than two hundred kilometers. Walking was the best way to see the territory, to absorb the culture, and he had done much of both. He had learned that it was hard for a warrior race to accept defeat, and while the Khalia had done so, it had not always been with grace. Thus far he had managed to turn away the wrath he had felt.
The three Khalians were laughing and joking among themselves as they moved, slapping each other with heavy paws, swaggering along the cobblestones and feeling little, if any, pain. All three wore gray cross-straps with the twin knives. Stone didn’t recognize the clan from the color or insignia on the straps.
The largest of the trio, still only chest high to the Terran but wide in the body and probably almost as heavy as Stone, lifted his head and sniffed the night air. The wind was at Stone’s back, what little of it there was, and he knew his scent would be carried on the humid air.
The three stopped as the larger Khalian uttered a short curse. Stone continued walking, across the street from them and nearly past. They could not see as well as he, but they were not blind.
“Hold!” the leader of the trio called in Khalian militaryspeak.