MussGray spoke again.
"We'll be ready," said Holt. "Their decision is made," he said to Morgan.
The two of them dressed quickly, unself-consciously. After all, she thought wryly, we're all soldiers, comrades in arms.
"Are they coming down here?"
"No," Holt said. "We're to go back above."
When they climbed the ladder and emerged from the hide shelter, they found a clear, cold starscape overhead. MussGray led them back to the windhover. Morgan saw that the skids were now covered with fresh snow.
PereSnik't and the other adult 'Reen, not just the silvered elders, waited. Bulked together in the night, they didn't seem to Morgan either ominous or an outright danger. They were simply at home there, not discomforted by the chill.
The two humans stopped a meter from PereSnik't. MussGray crossed over some intangible boundary and rejoined the tribe. He, too, faced Morgan and Holt.
The streamers of Almira's aurora began to play above the horizon. Ribbons of startling blue crackled into the sky.
PereSnik't said something. To Morgan, it seemed surprisingly brief. Holt let out his breath audibly.
"And—?" she said softly.
"It's done."
"Will they help?"
The dark mass of 'Reen stirred. PereSnik't said something to them over his shoulder.
"They will try to aid us," said Holt. "I think they understand what I attempted to get across. I'm more concerned about what I don't comprehend."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"They agreed," Holt shook his head. "But the terms of the bargain are open. I don't know the price. I'm not sure they do either."
"How expensive can it' be?" Actually she had already begun to speculate. Night thoughts. The man only smiled. In the shifting, ephemeral light of the aurora, it was not a smile of joy.
The machine swept steadily toward the waiting second wave of Almiran fighters. The ragtag fleet neither advanced nor retreated. The ships hung in position, interposing themselves as a flimsy shield between assassin and victim.
The machine electronically seined the inexorably diminishing distance between. It did not project a definitive probability-model of the humans' intention. It could not. The machine searched its memories for similar human strategies. Nothing quite matched. In its way, the machine considered what it perceived to be all the likely human options, attempting to place itself in its opponents' position. No answers emerged.
Electrons continued to spin in paths weaving patterns that simulated organic intelligence—only it was a mind far more carefully considered, infinitely more ordered than that of humans. There was no primitive animal forebrain here. No conscience. No irrationality. Only a paradox. A holographic representation of oblivion.
The boojum searched for any evidence of human trickery, signs of an ambush, but it could accumulate no empirical support.
It sailed on.
But as much as it was capable of doing so, the machine wondered…
"No?" said Morgan. "No?"
"No, with regrets." Dr. Epsleigh looked very unhappy. "The word came down from the Princess Elect's office a short time before you and Holt returned. I'd already dispatched the transport to pick up the 'Reen, but now I'll have to call it back."
Dr. Epsleigh's office at the Wolverton landing field was spare and austere. The four of them—Tanzin had been waiting for Holt and Morgan the moment the windhover set down—sat in straightbacked, unpadded chairs around a bare desk.
"But why?" Morgan thought that if she gripped the arms of her chair any more tightly, either the furniture or her fingers would snap.
"Spume," said Dr. Epsleigh.
"I don't understand," said Holt.
"It's the word the Prime Minister used." Dr. Epsleigh shrugged. "Moonfoam. Brainfroth. The point being he thought our plan was the silliest proposal of anything anyone had suggested. That's why the summary turn-down."
"I have to admit I can see his position," said Tanzin. She leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs, one boot crossed above the other. "It's akin to me saying, 'Hey, I've got a. great idea—I think my pet is telepathic, and he can hypnotize the bird in the birdbath.' Then someone else says, 'Hey, it's so crazy, it might just work.' See the point?"
"I gave Morgan's suggestion preliminary approval," said Dr. Epsleigh angrily. "Are you suggesting this is all a pipe dream? We're in a desperate situation."
"Just a moment," Morgan'said, "Hold on. Does the PM have a plan of his own?"
Dr. Epsleigh turned toward her, shaking her head in disgust. "It's death. I told him that, but he said if was the only rational option."
"Suicide." Tanzin inspected her boots. "Pure and simple."
"You don't like any of the alternatives," said Holt.
"No." Tanzin's voice was somber. "No,"I don't."
"Suicide?" said Morgan. "What did the PM say?"
Dr. Epsleigh gestured out the dawn-lit window toward the massed ranks of fighting ships. "One, massive attack. Those ships carrying all the massed armament and fire-power that can be bonded on during the next few hours. Mass against mass. Brute force against force."
"The machine will win," said Holt.
"The PM knows that, I suspect. I also think he believes the machine will prevail in any account. A grand doomed gesture is apparently better than this half-balked scheme from a battle hero and a junior pilot." Dr. Epsleigh slapped her small hands down on the desk top with finality.
"No," said Morgan. They all looked at her. She said to Dr. Epsleigh, "Can you use your phone to get through to the Princess Elect's office?' I want the woman herself."
Without a word, the administrator punched out a code.
"What are you doing?" said Holt. "I've heard the Princess Elect doesn't do a thing without the PM's approval."
"Have I given you my lecture on power?" Morgan said, and proceeded, to answer without pause her own rhetorical question. "I despise the power one is born to without earning it. I've never used that lever."
Dr. Epslelgh had reached someone on the phone. "Tell her the caller is Morgan Kai-Anila," she said.
"My personal rules are now suspended," Morgan said.
"It's time for this 'blood-bloated, privileged parasite on the body politic' to kick some rears."
Dr. Epsleigh handed her the phone.
"Hello?" Morgan said. She forced a smile and let that smile seep into her voice. "Hello, Aunt Thea, dear?"
Steam curled up from the jet nozzles of the dart-shaped fighters. The rows of sleek fuselages formed a chevron, the point of which faced away from the administration complex of the landing field at Wolverton. The sun had sunk close to the western horizon, the twilight glow beginning to soften the peaks of the Shraketooth Range.
Swarms of workers surrounded the fighters, topping off water tanks, tuning each weapon, completing installation of the additional acceleration couches.
The briefing hall had become an auditorium of Babel. Intermixed, humans and 'Reen crowded the room. The sessions had been loud and volatile. Serving as translator, Holt had tried to mediate. The basic problem seemed to be that each group thought it was surrounded by unsavory barbarians.
The overtaxed air purifying system could no longer cope with the sweat and musk. Cheek by jowl, fur against flesh, luxuriant flank stripes juxtaposed with extravagantly theatrical uniforms, the warriors groused and growled as Dr. Epsleigh tried to keep peace.
About the height of the average 'Reen, the administrator had to stand on a chair to be seen by all in the room. Many of the pilots looked distinctly dubious after having listened through the first briefing sessions.
"I know you have questions," continued Dr. Epsleigh. "I recognize that we've been asking you to take all this in on faith. I also know I can't order any of you simply to be credulous."
Beside her Holt translated for the benefit of the 'Reen, "Just let me wrap it up," said Dr. Epsleigh. "The majority of pilots will have the essential task of harrying the boojum in whatever way a
nd from whichever tangent they can. It will be your job to draw the machine's attention from the score of colleagues who will be ferrying our 'Reen allies as near to the enemy as is"—a wry smile broke across her lips—"humanly possible."
Amaranth stood in fee first row; "Isn't this just as foredoomed as the PM's idiotic plan?"'
"'If It were, I wouldn't endorse it." Dr. Epsleigh raised her eyes machineward. "It will be dangerous, yes. You'll all be dependent upon your wits and the abilities of your ships."
Amaranth nodded, amused. "It's never been any different." The 'Reen whuffled and coughed at the translation. For them also, it was a point of commonality.
"We've exhaustively pored over the recordings of our first combat encounter with the machine," said Dr. Epsleigh. "So long as the boojum's missiles and beams are avoided, we're sure that some of our ships can maneuver beyond the protective screens."
"Mighty hard to avoid particle beams, maneuvering in slow motion," someone called out from the floor.
'"I expect that's why the rest of us'll be speeding our tails off," someone else answered.
"Precisely right," said Dr. Epsleigh. "The machine won't anticipate seeming irrationality.".
"So you think."
"So we think." The uproar threatened to drown out the administrator.
"And then the 'Reen will claw the boojum to death?" someone apparently said jokingly, but too loud.
"Is a manner of speaking,"' Dr. Epsleigh said.
Holt translated that for PereSnik't's benefit. MussGray overheard and both 'Reen growled in amusement. Dr. Epsleigh shook her head in exasperation and asked Holt to explain the Calling again.
"I still don't think I believe in all that occult crap," a pilot called out.
"Neither do I think," Holt said, "that the 'Reen believe simple light can actually be cohered into a laser.''
"But that's different."
The room's noise level got louder again.
Twilight had begun to fuzz into actual night.
In the briefing hall, Holt held up a meter-square sheet of shining alloy so that all could see. A grid of silver lines had been etched, then painted in almost a cloisonné effect. Regular clusters of angular symbols cross-connected the lines. The panel could equally have represented an electronic map or a jewelry design. It was an elaborate and stylized pattern.
"The apprentice MussGray created this," said Holt, "under the direction of the shaman, PereSnik't. It will focus the Calling."
"This is the brain of the boojum," Dr. Epsleigh said.
PereSnik't rumbled something.
"The heart," Holt translated. "Energy. The electrical field."
"The design may not be identical to the primary components in that machine up there," said the administrator, "but it's as close as we can come by guess and extrapolation after ransacking the historical computer memories. When we were part of the rest of human civilization, our ancestors helped dissect some of the boojums. We're hoping that logic circuitry is logic circuitry, even allowing for refinement."
The room fell silent.
"Hey," said Amaranth, voice loud and firm, "I'll give it a shot." His lips spread in a grin, revealing broad, white, gleaming teeth. The 'Reen muttered approvingly as Holt translated.
"We've placed identical copies of the focus pattern in each ship carrying a 'Reen. To help coordinate the plan, our friends will have their own ship's-link channel." Dr. Epsleigh turned on the chair and looked down at Holt "You're going to be a busy young man. I understand PereSnik't will ride with no one else."
"He is my father," said Holt. "I am his son."
"Will you be able to handle the translating as well?"
"No one else can." Holt's voice was not so much resigned as it was simply matter-of-fact.
PereSnik't said something. Dr. Epsleigh looked at Holt questioningly; the young man had already growled a brief answer. "He wanted to know if it were the chanting time yet. I told him no. The prey is still too distant."
In the forefront of the pilots, Amaranth restlessly shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Let's get on with it," he said. "It's getting late and we're all getting curious whether we'll live or die."
That triggered smiles and nods from those around him.
Dr. Epsleigh shrugged. "You've heard what I have to say about tactics. Just do what's necessary to get the 'Reen as close to the machine's surface as possible."
Anything else seemed anticlimactic. Holt led the 'Reen out toward the ships. Tanzin followed with the pilots. They mixed at the doors of the hall. The neat divisions along species lines no longer seemed as clear-cut as at the beginning of the day.
Dr. Epsleigh lingered, waiting by a door. Morgan came up to her. "Sympathetic magic and PK indeed," the administrator said. "Should I have said good luck? Godspeed? I might as well simply admit I am sending you all out with thimbles and forks and hope."
Morgan squeezed her hand, "You may be surprised by who all come back." Silently, behind her reassuring smile, she thought, I know I will be.
Together they walked toward the field and the ships. The dying sunset looked like blood streaking the sky.
The machine did not overtly react when it detected movement in the distant fleet of fighters. Other craft were rising from the planetary surface and joining the group. The boojum's sensory systems registered each increment of numbers, every measure of expended energy.
The fighters began to disperse toward the machine in no particularly discernible formation. The boojum searched for patterns and found none.
Then the machine completed another in its infinite series of weapons system status checks.
The ships in the approaching swarm flared energy.
Everything seemed to be fine. The oblivion within the machine waited to be defined and fulfilled.
Like silver shoals of fish they rose up, the fighter formations rising from Almira's surface. Throttles open, the fighters accelerated. Superheated steam plumes whirled back from the craft, propelling them into an ever blacker sky where the stars had begun to glitter.
The stage, thought Dr. Epsleigh, watching from her tower window in the Wolverton terminal, is set. The massed scream of the rockets deafened her.
She realized the fingers of her right hand were curled into a fist, and that fist was upraised. Get the bastard!
SHIP'S LINK
CHANNEL CHECKS
Wolverton Control/All Ships: "The Princess Elect says 'Good luck' and bring back a chunk of the boojum for the palace garden."
Amaranth/Wolverton Control: "Stuff that! We're gonna bring back enough scrap so the palace gardeners can make a whole public gazebo."
Bogdan/Wolverton Control: "I like the sound of 'gazebo,' Can we perhaps code the machine that instead of 'boojum'?"
Wolverton Control/Bogdan: "Sorry, fellow. Too late, Boojum it is."
Anonymous/All Ships: "Bloody hell. Death be what it is."
Holt/'Reen Channel: *Our Hair-like-Morgan-elected-leader-serving-from-the-ground tells you all 'Good fortune and success in the hunt.'*
PereSnik't/'Reen Channel: *Could not your leader/shaman/provider have initiated so enlightened a sentiment a bit earlier than tonight? As perhaps her forebears could have three or four hundred world journeys ago?*
Various/'Reen Channel: *amusement*
Holt/'Reen Channel: *There were many sad winters…*
PereSnik't/'Reen Channel: *Sad winters…?! Skelk droppings, Son. What we do now is a perversion of the Calling that gives me dismay. This is not food-gathering.*
Holt/'Reen Channel: *It is a greater good.*
PereSnik't/'Reen Channel: *My unthought-out comment is unsuitable for either furred ears or bare.*
Various/'Reen Channel. *amusement*
Holt/'Reen Channel: *I am unthinking. Forgive me.*
PereSnik't/'Reen Channel: * Let us concentrate on our onerous task. Let us pursue it with honor.*
All/'Reen Channel: *anticipation*
*hunger*
*exultation
*
Runagate/LNTCVPl-Bob/ Ship, is your pilot's survivability index high?
LNTCVP1-Bob/Runagate: He has luck, skill, and courage. My level of confidence is high. Why do you inquire?
Runagate/LNTCVPl-Bob: My pilot's interest level in your pilot is increasing. Her concerns are mine as well.
LNTCVP1-Bob/Runagate: I perceive an equivalent status on the part of Holt. I hold no wish to see him injured in any way.
Runagate/LNTCVP1-Bob: Then we both must survive.
LNTCVP1-Bob/Runagate: The projections do not encourage me.
Runagate/LNTCVP1-Bob: We shall live with them.
LNTCVP1-Bob/Runagate: I will look forward to discussing these matters with you after the battle.
Runagate/LNTCVPl-Bob: Likewise. And with pleasure… Bob.
Morgan ordered Runagate to adjust the artificial gravity so that a satisfying, but less than debilitating, G-force would trickle through the system and settle both 'Reen passenger and the pilot snugly into their harnesses.
Takeoff acceleration hadn't seemed to bother MussGray at all. The artist had endured the climb up to the stratosphere stoically, listening to the voices on the 'Reen channel. He had not so much as shut his polished jet eyes as the ship shuddered and sang. The 'Reen hunter in him bared his teeth at the screens as they imaged the distant boojum. He unsheathed his claws.
Morgan lay cradled in her pilot's couch and exulted in the profligate power of the torch, powering her ship. She restrained herself from putting Runagate into a vertical roll. Time enough soon for fancy maneuvers. But, she thought, the power, the sheer, raw force propelling her into space atop a column of incandescent vapor was the most intoxicating feeling she had ever known.
Competing information channels buzzed and bleated within her ears. Almira and Wolverton Control, the fleet ahead, her colleagues, the 'Reen, Runagate. Morgan had ordered her ship to monitor all links, including the 'Reen channel, and to mix whatever communications he deemed important.
"That may confuse you a bit," Runagate had said.
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