Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  "Eight weeks ago I made a discovery. I discovered that one of us is a genius above all geniuses in battle gaming. As a graduating midshipman, I set the Academy's official all-time cumulative scoring record for space-battle games. So I tested and retested this newly discovered genius, then tested him some more. In every test he humbled me, and as a result I've made him battle master. Given him the duty I love best of all, because this will be no game. It will be for real, for the future of humankind."

  He paused, letting them absorb it.

  "He improves our odds of victory by a factor of ten. So I want to introduce this man to you, this supreme battle master. You need to know him and hear him. He is a gift from the Tao, and one of the finest human beings I have ever known."

  Up to this point, the camera had given the viewers a close shot of their admiral, showing him from the waist up. Now the viewpoint backed off, showing him standing beside a wheeled, motorized stand.

  "Our new battle master's name is Charley Gordon. Not Admiral Gordon. Not Captain Gordon or Commander Gordon. Charley Gordon, a civilian. He is also our flagship savant."

  The admiral's calm features seemed to gaze through the screen at them, as they sat or stood, surprised or puzzled, in messroom, wardroom, engine room, bridge, on battleship, cruiser, corvette… He continued.

  "A savant. `Savant' is short for `idiot savant,' because most of them aren't able to function mentally as we do. But all have talents that the rest of us do not.

  "Charley Gordon is different. He has savant talents, and he reasons… superbly. He was born in the Brazilian Autonomy, in Rio de Janeiro. As a child he dwelt constantly at death's door, till at age twelve he was bottled, to save his life. Now… "

  Their admiral waited again, then gestured at the cart, and the module on its top. "This is Charley Gordon," he said, then indicated the small sensor set that topped it. "He sees and hears his immediate surroundings with these. But through his connections with shipsmind, he sees much more. At will.

  "And now I'll let him tell you more about what he does and how he does it."

  Almost no one spoke, anywhere in the fleet. Inwardly Soong fidgeted. Because Charley had told him almost nothing about what he'd say. "One of my differences," he'd explained, "is that I function best when playing by ear."

  Now Charley broke the silence, in a voice that was not in the least robotic. One might almost have called it merry. "I am Charley Gordon. I am thirty-three years old, and for most of those years I've been war gaming. It's as if I was born for it.

  "My response to almost anything is an action. An action! Me, who lives in a box! I act electronically, via whatever mechanisms I'm connected with. Including my vocator, with which I'm speaking to you now, and by whatever artificial intelligence or other server I'm connected with. In this case shipsmind, especially its battlecomp function.

  "As battle master I have certain innate and very important advantages. For example, I absorb books and other data sources like a sponge absorbs water. And none of it leaks out or evaporates. Instead it integrates, unifies, forms a coherent system. Where it harmonizes according to natural laws I can only sense, but use intuitively. Use in ways analogous to the ways I communicate with War House in real time, even though Kunming is hyperspace months away."

  Soong had gotten used to talking with Charley Gordon; now he was listening to him with different ears, crew ears. Great Tao! he thought. He's charismatic! How did I miss that? He positively radiates intelligence and assurance! This will work better than I'd hoped.

  "Some of what I tell you may sound strange," Charley went on. "But most of you have had technical training and games experience, so you will understand. If not at once, then when you've seen it in action.

  "Equally important… " He paused. "Let me put it this way. Things happen in sequences. A cause results in an effect, which causes another effect. Et cetera. The causes may include a human decision, a weather incident, an argument, leaky plumbing… almost anything. Such cause/effect sequences I call vectors, and vectors often intersect, and interact.

  "For example: Some geophysical incident-say a tidal wave resulting from a volcanic eruption-destroys a village in the Sulu Archipelago. As one result, a surviving villager migrates to Zamboanga, where he meets a stranger at a mosque. They talk, and decide to become robbers together. Ambushing a well-dressed man, they steal a message plaque he'd carried in a body wallet. The message is in a Tamil dialect which neither knows, but… " He paused. "One thing leads to another, and before long, one robber is dead at the hands of Han smugglers, and our ex-villager is hiding among pilgrims en route to Mecca."

  His listeners could hear the calm and smiling competence in Charley's voice. "A vector in progress, you see. Now we Provos are on a vector which will soon intersect the vector of the Wyzhnyny armada. And when those vectors intersect, they will result in a spray of new vectors.

  "My greatest advantage as battle master is, I am able to sense the relevant vectors-and their probabilistic futures. Some vectors remain fixed over long periods of time: a planet in its orbit, a comet in its orbit. Eventually they may intersect, but very probably they will not. It would be useful to know in advance.

  "Many other vectors are very erratic, like a spoiled child unrestrained in a toy store. Even those I can often foresee with some confidence. And while I do these things intuitively, I know them consciously."

  The admiral listened intently. Charley had never brought up these things to him, though by hindsight they'd been apparent in his gaming.

  "Mostly," Charley continued, "I can't project them very far. Many intersect with too many other effective vectors. Human and alien choices, and of course chaos functions, can cause vectors to change, and give rise to new vectors. But I am generally a few steps ahead of events, and that is a very important advantage.

  "Beyond that, I coordinate factors and data very very well. Not as precisely as a shipsmind, but on a higher level. For what is termed `intuition' in an artificial intelligence is simply the use of stochastic processes to extrapolate beyond or around areas of weak or ambiguous data. Human intuition can go well beyond that."

  ***

  Soong listened while Charley wrapped up his talk. Among other things, the savant knew when to stop. When he was done, the admiral added a few closing comments, then ended the session. It seemed to him they'd pulled it off. Or Charley had. Over the next day or so he'd know absolutely, one way or the other, by fleet performance.

  Meanwhile Altai's shipsmind had uploaded the contents of its upgraded battlecomp to the rest of the fleet. And when the all-hands session was over, the admiral called for a command conference on the closed command frequency. A few hours later, the force was ready to begin simulation drills.

  ***

  The simdrills went so well that three days later the force began "steel drills." In these the battle groups moved physically in space while Altai's battlecomp threw sequences of enemy responses at them. From his battle command station on the bridge, Charley rattled off rapid shorthand instructions to shipsmind, instructions forwarded by radio to the rest of the force, which fought as separate but coordinated battle groups.

  In F-space, maneuvers were as limited as ever; one thing Charley couldn't do was cancel inertia. But by anticipating "enemy responses," he permitted individual battle groups to transit from F-space to warpspace with minimal losses. And his control and coordination of beam fire and torpedo attacks against enemy movements was deadly.

  It was all pretend, of course, but the Provo crews had gained a large degree of optimism, and an enthusiasm that made the whole venture exciting. Even the "losses" of Provo warships did not greatly cool them. They were, they told each other, going to teach the Wyzhnyny the cost of bringing war to human space.

  Alvaro Soong was not as optimistic. The drills had been as realistic as possible, short of shooting at each other. But it was still a limited reality, because Wyzhnyny weaponry, tactics, nerve-even the number of their warships-was unknown.

  Wh
ich was, he reminded himself, the main reason he'd been sent there, he and his Provos. At the least, he needed to maintain engagement long enough to forward a definitive picture of Wyzhnyny battle capacities to War House. To inflict substantive damage would be a bonus.

  Chapter 45

  A Time of Truth

  The armada had emerged from hyperspace so often in this galaxy, it had become routine, and no longer drew Quanshuk to the bridge or to his feet. He watched from the AG couch in his quarters.

  "… five, four, three, two, one… "

  Stars exploded onto the screen, but their beauty no longer lifted him. Even the question-would one of its planets be habitable?-had long since become routine. The armada emerged every shipsday or two-at every star whose isogravs suggested any possibility of a habitable planet. Usually staying only long enough to discover there wasn't one. Sometimes five minutes was enough. Sometimes they sent a Survey ship for a closer look. When one seemed clearly habitable, they stayed several days, and left with a sense of accomplishment. But after so many, even that was routine now.

  This emergence came during shipsnight, and Quanshuk closed his eyes again. The bridge would call him if…

  His comm yammered, and he jerked wide awake. "This is the admiral," he answered.

  "Your lordship, there is something you need to see. Perhaps on the bridge?"

  The voice was that of Captain Kruts, the Meadowlands' master. "I'll be there momentarily," Quanshuk answered.

  "Shall I notify Chief Scholar Qonits and Admiral Tualurog, your lordship?"

  "At your discretion."

  The admiral jabbed a key, then got stiffly to his feet, his arthritic joints complaining. He was medicated, always, but not so strongly as to banish pain. He was grand admiral, and would not risk dulling his mind.

  At first, after getting up, he didn't walk well. He carried himself well-torso erect, long head high-but his steps were short and painful. Qonits caught up with him at the entry to the bridge, and they went in together.

  Kruts was waiting for them, and pointed at the large screen centered in the monitor array on the bridge's forward bulkhead. It showed a compressed representation of the system, with the conventional armada icon, and other icons marking planets. Two others-flashing orange lights-marked detected sources of technical electronics.

  Two sources. One was the second planet. The other was in the near fringe, its system azimuth 134 degrees from the armada's. Quanshuk stepped quickly to his admiral's station, and called for an enlarged view of the fringe source. Or cluster of sources, for that's how the monitor showed them. At nearly nine light-hours distance, there was no visual resolution. A sidebar numbered them, however: 230 individual sources-230 ships.

  Quanshuk frowned. Two hundred thirty. Why were they here? They were far too few to do battle with him.

  Then it struck him. Turning, he scanned the bridge crew. "An evacuation fleet," he said, then elaborated. "On most of the human worlds we've come to, much of the population had clearly been evacuated. Very probably we're looking at an evacuation fleet." He turned to his chief scholar. "Wouldn't you say, Qonits?"

  "Indeed, my lord, that would explain them."

  The chief scholar looked less than sure of it. But then, being skeptical was part of a scholar's job.

  ***

  In the Provo force, an electronic bosun's pipe shrilled through the corridors and compartments of the Altai and every other manned ship. Followed by shipsvoice: "Now hear this! Now hear this! All hands report to mustering stations by 1022 hours. All hands to mustering stations by 1022 hours." Then the sequence repeated. Every hand knew; this was it: the time of truth. "All hands" calls were infrequent. To repeat it like this…

  Ten-twenty-two; in ten minutes.

  To top it off, after a few seconds music began to issue from the ships' speakers. Music! That was different. The admiralty had established "instant tradition" for its new fleet, including an "unofficial" fleet theme, dubbed "Spacing Off to Dilly Doo." Dilly Doo being a planet in a very old, off-color space tale-a sort of Valhalla where spacers supposedly went when they died, to binge and bawd. The recording-by the pipes and drums of the Caledonian Regimental Band-dated from before space flight. Its name then had been "Scotland the Brave," something few spacers were aware of.

  By any name it was stirring. And when they'd finished "Dilly Doo," the Caledonians continued without a break, playing other martial music.

  Meanwhile men in bunks swung their legs out, put feet on the deck, and went to the head to relieve themselves and splash cold water on their faces. Men in rec rooms shut off books and games, officers in wardrooms finished their coffee and rolls or set them aside. Something major was up, and no one on board had any doubt what it was.

  Most mustering stations were messrooms. Personnel on duty could watch on their duty monitor. By 1022, every man and woman aboard every ship was in front of a screen; in sickbay perhaps a screen above the bed.

  It was not the shipsvoice that spoke to them. They'd have been surprised if it was. It was the "old man" himself, the admiral. A close shot of him-chest, shoulders, head. Dark eyes dominating, jaw firm. "Men of the First Provos," he began. The thirty-one percent who were women took no offense. The term "men" as a neuter collective had been accepted for a long time.

  "We have found the enemy. The Wyzhnyny armada arrived in this system at 1010 hours, only nine light-hours away."

  The admiral's face was replaced by a representation of the Paraiso System, showing the relative positions of the two fleets, as icons.

  "By now they have surely read our electronic signature, and are wondering what in the Tao this small fleet is doing here. Knowing that we will have read their emergence waves, they will expect us to flee. They will expect that nine hours hence, our electronics will disappear from their sensors."

  The admiral's face replaced the schematic. "At 1030 hours we will generate warpspace-and at 1230 hours emerge within the fringe of their armada." He paused, then spoke more loudly and sharply. "And show them what humans can do in a fight! Especialy with our battle master."

  His voice resumed its usual even delivery. "Each of you knows your role in this. Your duty; what you are to do. I expect your best. We will shock the invader; we will bleed him; we will make him wish he'd never left home."

  Then he raised his arms in closing, and "Dilly Doo"-"Scotland the Brave"-returned to the corridors and compartments of the 1st Provos.

  Except on the "maces." Maces had no crews. They had the dimensions of cruisers, but beamguns as powerful as those on battleships. Built to stand accelerations up to 100 gees, they could accelerate and decelerate at rates that humans, and presumably Wyzhnyny, could not remotely match. And they could fly high-speed evasion courses. Not extreme evasion courses, but courses that beamguns would have trouble getting locks on. At least beamguns on human warships.

  "Flying guns" they'd been called. It would have been as accurate to call them flying generators, for those guns required great power. And more: the newer squadrons generated two-layered shields. Their interior design had been modified to accommodate not only larger power generators but larger shield generators.

  As for their battle judgements and responses-the shipsminds aboard maces were second to none. And like every other Provo shipsmind, they'd been reprogrammed to respond to Charley Gordon's unique style of command.

  ***

  Rear Admiral Tualurog had taken over the grand admiral's station on the bridge, allowing Quanshuk to return to bed. It was easy duty. Shipsmind could manage the re-forming of battle wings, and the even more numerous transport and supply ships. Cleansing the humans from the habitable world was the colonizing tribe's responsibility. The Grand Fleet remained briefly on standby, to lend support as necessary.

  The tribe was already inbound in warpdrive, with its regiments of shock warriors, its divisions of non-warrior reservists, its integral ground support wing, and its own insystem defense force: a flotilla of cruisers and corvettes. The ground forces were
supported by two bombards-massive ships designed solely for ground bombardment-assigned to the planetary guard flotilla. These would destroy defense installations and troop concentrations, if any. And all technical facilities and population centers. After that, ground-support "hunters" helped "beat the bushes," guided by surveillance buoys parked in near-space.

  If the planet's defense forces turned out to be troublesome enough, the fleet could send down marines and additional ground support squadrons. But that was undesirable. It meant delaying the armada's departure.

  As for possible human incursions from space-the departing armada would leave a pentagonal battle group in the fringe: five battleships with a screen of cruisers and corvettes, ready to move against any threat. While a planetary guard flotilla was left insystem, to guard against landings.

  ***

  Like hideous trumpets, alarm horns blared through the Meadowlands, jerking everyone awake. A single, eight-second, ruff-raising discord that cut sharply to a voice, strident but concise: "Battle stations! Battle stations! Battle stations!"

  Quanshuk was on his feet and into the executive corridor more quickly than he'd moved for months. The ship was already fighting, its everpresent fine vibration amplified by the demands of heavy beamguns and the generation of her force shield. She jarred as a salvo of torpedos exploded against her newly generated shield, throwing the admiral against a bulkhead. The corridor lights flickered, then held.

  On the bridge, the only sound was quiet words spoken to closed-channel mikes. Quanshuk's practiced eyes took in the monitor array-diagrams; animations; live tracking shots, some foreshortened, others natural; enemy ships identified by pulsing red darts. Words flashed on the systems-status display. Beams of white light, war beams, crisscrossed screens, and not all ships were marked by the haloes indicating shields. Where war beams had locked on first, the shield generation process aborted.