The Far Stars War

by David Drake

  From above they were aided by their space force, which maintained not only a low earth orbit, but both geosynchronous and geosynchronous transfer orbits. High above the planet Skylark a battle fleet hovering constantly over one spot conducted the war. Transports looped in from it to supply top cover to the assault fleet, which itself provided a stream of airspace transports downloading supplies and fighter aircraft. Surprisingly, the Gerin seemed to ignore unarmed ships which avoided the war zones. Poindexter closed his eyes and called up the graphics which showed the orbits as two circles—the geosynchronous and low earth orbits joined by an elliptical geosynchronous transfer orbit. It was this newly arrived assault fleet, a relatively new development, which finally awoke the politicians of more distant island states to the danger the Gerin posed. Far away, however, the threat looked unreal, or at least transient, and certainly not global.

  “The destruction of all space stations, completed just this week, will ultimately cause larger coalitions to form,” Archimedes continued. “Unfortunately the destruction of the stations and the few free-flying communications satellites has rendered coordination of defense nearly impossible and has already reduced commerce of all forms by thirty percent.” The simulacrum paused, the result of a trillion new calculations. “The restriction of commerce is projected to increase arithmetically until the planet is conquered by the enemy.”

  “The assault force is in retrograde orbit. Why?” Charlie asked of the fake parakeet.

  “Unknown,” it answered. “Most probably due to original orbital inclinations.”

  “What about the composition of the GTO force?” Charlie asked, searching the possibilities open to them.

  “GTO—ambiguous—expand,” Archimedes responded in computer confusion.

  “GTO: geosynchronous transfer orbit,” Charlie explained with a sigh. Every so often the simulacrum would remind him that it was nothing more than a very sophisticated set of molecular electronic devices linked to form an excellent imitation of intelligence. Only an imitation. It couldn’t think; it could just repeat what had been programmed into it.

  “Information regarding the enemy’s space forces is classified as an Alliance top secret,” the simulacrum responded primly.

  “I thought you were going to break into those systems,” Charlie insisted.

  “Certainly,” Archimedes replied. “However, you have been occupying too much of my computative facilities to permit me to gain access.”

  “Okay, okay! I’ll shut up,” Charlie responded. Electronically he called ahead to his spaceplane, Risky Lady, to lower the boarding ramp as they approached. Once inside, the merchant pressed the retract button and strode determinedly into the cockpit. There he deposited the strangely still form of the parakeet on the armrest of one of the pilot seats and sat himself in the other.

  Risky Lady was a standard aerospace plane which still had conventional displays and controls as well as the ever-present biolink the avian aliens had given him which enabled properly “wired” pilots to connect directly to the onboard intelligence. It was incapable of getting farther off Skylark than a high orbit, but could put him anywhere on the planet within minutes.

  Charlie connected with Risky Lady. Softly he subvocalized, Hey, baby! How’s it going?

  All systems are functioning normally, the ship replied in dry controlled tones. However, I have noted on the military wavelengths that there is an increasing number of military craft in the air and suborbital space which indicates that…

  Yeah, I know. Rough times ahead, Charlie interrupted.

  Having your ship controlled by a second enhanced computer programmed to be primarily concerned with its own survival could be a problem. What about the cargo?

  All cargo has been successfully off-loaded, the ship responded, adding with a note of discomfiture: However, the simulacrum Archimedes conducted all business transactions on our behalf.

  So? Archy do something wrong?

  A profit was made but not as great as could have been realized.

  Charlie smiled. Risky Lady was also programmed to maximize profits.

  Overhauls cost money! the ship protested.

  Archy was acting under my orders, Charlie informed her. Don’t worry about the profits. I thought we were gathering vital information. He sensed silent shock from Risky Lady. Whoever had programmed her really liked his profits. What about back-freight?

  The prospects of profit are dismal, the ship responded, feeding him raw data. Charlie stiffened involuntarily as the data downloaded into his implant. Instantly, he had a list of over a thousand items which could be purchased from the port’s automated warehouses all over the beleaguered capital. His implant and Risky Lady both had already decided which items from the list would maximize certain slightly different requirements: profit and usefulness. One item stored near the port itself caught his attention: Umbrellas?

  Tanning umbrellas, silvered, two meters in diameter with bimetallic sun sensors. They open automatically in sunlight. “Ideal for the beach!” the ship intoned in response, even to the point of switching “voices” to reproduce the advertising blurb at the end.

  Here? That’s insane! You don’t need a tanning umbrella on Skylark! Charlie laughed. The clouds rarely parted anywhere on Skylark—it was just too humid. Apparently they were intended for off-planet export.

  “The same tanning umbrellas that the natives of beautiful Skylark use!” Another line from the commercial.

  “I have succeeded in gaining the data on the enemy space forces,” Archimedes announced suddenly, startling Poindexter. His entire conversation with the ship had taken 11.2 seconds.

  “And?” Charlie prompted the enhanced parakeet. “The data are very interesting. It appears that the largest craft of the Gerin’s geosynchronous space force always alters to transfer orbit-GTO-before a major assault is launched.”

  “How often is GTO in sync with the LEO?” Charlie snapped.

  “Ambiguous phrases: sync, LEO, please clarify.”

  Charlie responded in computer, wondering who had programmed such marvelous memories and hadn’t entered so many commonly used terms. “Sync: short for synchronous. LEO: low earth orbit.” Charlie finished in exasperated tones. “Bloody parrot!”

  “’Understood,” Archimedes replied evenly. “This simulacrum is a parakeet, not a parrot,” it continued in hurt tones.

  Charlie rolled his eyes heavenward. Whoever had programmed the personality was a sanctimonious SOB, too.

  “Just give me the answer!”

  “Geosynchronous transfer orbit and low earth orbit synchronize once every seven low earth orbits, nearly in exact time with the orbital period of geosynchronous transfer orbit,” the simulacrum answered.

  Charlie paused to turn that answer into something more human-readable: transfer orbit matched with low earth orbit about once every ten hours, roughly. That big ship . . . “What sort of communications data do you have?” Charlie asked.

  “Ambigu—”

  “The big enemy ship—how much communications traffic does it have?” Charlie expanded.

  “Information indicates that the largest enemy ship has the greatest amount of communications traffic,” Archimedes answered. Then, reaching Charlie’s conclusions: “However, that does not make that ship the command ship—it could just as easily be a hospital or repair ship.”

  “Something important whichever way.” Charlie decided.

  “You must remember that the rules of war do not allow hospitals to be attacked,” Archimedes informed him.

  Charlie swore. “Bird, those mothers’ sons don’t give one flying—” He caught himself as he realized he would have to spend several hours explaining the meaning of his swearing to the simulacrum. “Disregard. The enemy do not seem to be playing by the rules of war.” He thought to himself for a moment. “Do you have any idea when that ship will be in LEO again?”

/>   “That ship does not take a low earth orbit,” Archimedes responded primly, accepting the acronym and ignoring the meaning of the question.

  Charlie sighed in exasperation again. “When is that ship going to be at perigee of the GTO again?” he asked, rephrasing the original question in a manner understandable to the computer intelligence of the fake bird.

  “The ship will probably participate in an assault on the three remaining capitals of the Alliance in eighteen thousand four hundred and fifty-three point three-four seconds.” Archimedes sensed the question from Charlie before he asked. “Or five hours, seven minutes, thirty-three point three-four seconds.” ,

  “If only we could get that ship . . .” Seeing the tattered remnants of the island’s defenders had affected Charlie more than he expected. He had to do something.

  “The effect of destroying that enemy vessel is not known, as its exact purpose is still unknown,” Archimedes responded. “However, if that ship is the command ship for the alien assault they would be discommoded only for the length of time required to receive another command ship; doubtless their assault would continue in the interim, diminished by an unknown factor.”

  “Bird, you talk too much!”

  “Our purpose in being here is to gather information so that—”

  “Don’t say it!” Charlie cried, pointing a silencing finger at the bird. “I know why we’re gathering information on the enemy, but it won’t do a bit of good if they’re going to wipe out the whole planet!”

  “As long as the information is stored in a manner that allows it to be retrieved at a later date it does not matter whether the planet is devoid of human life,” the simulacrum replied dispassionately.

  “It does to the humans who die here!” Charlie replied hotly, forgetting for a moment to what he was talking. He cooled off. “Besides, how are we supposed to preserve this information?”

  “That,” the simulacrum responded, “is why I was united with a human being—to allow him to make that determination. That is your function, your sole function, so far as I am programmed to respond.”

  “Five hours, huh?” Charlie mused. How is our fuel? he asked Risky Lady.

  Fuel types for all stages of ascent and descent were ordered and are at maximum, the ship responded.

  Charlie could have sworn it sounded a bit smug. He leaned back in the pilot’s seat.

  Decisions must be made soon. The situation grows risky as the enemy gets closer, the ship prodded him in a twittering voice. Charlie wondered if the voice belonged to the genius that had programmed her, then pulled in on himself, thinking. After a few seconds he threw two switches on the control panel and all external contacts cut out, ship, simulacrum, even his artificial left arm. Bitterly, he mulled over the information he had. The planet was lost. It was only a matter of time. He thought of the children he’d watched playing just outside the walls of the marine compound on the Royal Islands, and felt helpless. Surrender was pointless, overflights had found no sign of a living human being in any enemy-held lands. Fighting was pointless; the enemy would overwhelm their meager defenses, and only a totally committed planet-wide defensive stood any chance of checking the enemy until help from other human worlds came—if it could be persuaded to come. There was no hope.

  “Dammit, I won’t give in!” Charlie swore, jerking forward as images of his men dying around him mixed with the death-tired eyes of the marine lieutenant and his platoon—all too soon to be annihilated. “There’s got to be a way to hit back, or at least to give them a hotfoot!”

  Charlie stopped. A look of amazement crossed his face and he fell back in the seat, thoughtful. A smile crossed his face, and then he laughed, loud and long. He reconnected to the rest of the electronic world, forcing his left arm to take a thrower’s stance and jerking it as though throwing an unseen javelin. He speeded the arm up, faster, and then stopped.

  “Archy?” he called. The simulacrum looked at him.

  “What’s the fastest cycle time on this arm? How fast can it move?”

  “I cannot tell. The specifications are altered for each human recipient,” Archy replied.

  “Well, here, take it and see what you can find out,” Charlie responded, releasing control over the artificial arm. He watched, slightly perturbed, as the arm flexed and loosened repeatedly and then suddenly performed a series of jerks so fast that he thought the circuits must have blown again.

  “It has a cycle time of about forty-nine milliseconds, but I would not perform that operation repeatedly without getting modifications made to the limb’s mechanics.”

  “How about eight thousand cycles?” Charlie asked. The simulacrum was silent as it thought. “I can reasonably assert that the artificial limb can repeat that number of cycles for a limited time without sustaining immediate failure.”

  Charlie was instantly active. “Call the tower and get a clearance for Phoenicis,” Charlie told the parakeet. Internally he ordered the ship, Buy the umbrellas! They were already in a container and should take only a few minutes to load.

  The umbrellas are not profitable, the ship objected in haughty tones. When Charlie overrode the objection, Risky Lady allowed: They may be useful as samples. How many did you want?

  All of them! Charlie replied, getting a bit impatient.

  How soon can you get them aboard?

  There are eight thousand umbrellas for sale, the ship responded. If it was possible for mere circuits to sound confused, she did.

  I know! How long to get them aboard? Charlie asked, wondering if it was possible to outrage a computer.

  Two hours and twenty-three minutes to receive the container and reload all eight thousand umbrellas, the ship responded after consulting her computer counterpart in the automated warehouse.

  I want them loaded so that we can access them from the airlock, Charlie said. Risky Lady acknowledged the order, revising her estimate to exactly three hours.

  “Take off in three hours and five minutes,” Charlie informed the simulacrum as he settled back into his seat again.

  “Tower wants us to leave as soon as possible,” Archy responded, adding, “Enemy action outside the capital is beginning to threaten air access.”

  Poindexter ignored the parakeet’s warning, demanding instead that Archimedes calculate a series of orbits and orbital maneuvers that either so engaged or so confused the simulacrum as to render it speechless. Of Risky Lady he demanded detailed emissivity and absorptivity data of all paints commercially available. He finally found what he needed in Phoenicis, which was one of the few other ports still operating. Then, after overriding the ship’s troubled objections that the paints he was most interested in getting were already imported and not a profitable cargo, he ordered Archimedes to buy all they had.

  By the time Risky Lady was taking off, the Gerin were on the outskirts of the city and the simulacrum had struck a deal with a Phoenician trader for the paint. The flight to Phoenicis should have been completely atmospheric, but Charlie Poindexter chose to go suborbital. He rapped the simulacrum on its beak with his finger to get its attention.

  “I have not completed your calculations! One is needed for each launch,” the parakeet objected.

  “Fine, later,” Charlie said. “Link in with the Lady and see what sort of sensor information you can get on that big Gerin ship. Confirm that it’s coming down to LEO.”

  “I cannot possibly see what the position of the Gerin’s largest ship has to do with the safety of the information I possess,” the simulacrum complained.

  “That’s why you have a human being with you, bird beak.”

  Archimedes started to reply and stopped. After some time it spoke again, this time in a new voice. “There is no possible way for you to attack it with the equipment on this vessel!” it objected. “There are no ship’s weapons and it would have allowed none to be added.”

  “Just get the read
ings!” Charlie ordered. He linked with Risky Lady and added: Continue approach.

  Descent in ten minutes. On the descent Charlie remembered all of the lies he had told the marine lieutenant. Likely the young officer was dead now, he and the men he had led. What Charlie regretted most was the lie about the simulacrum: his men had not given it to him.

  “Just take it with you wherever you go. It’ll feed you all the information it has or gleans,” the birdlike ITC trader had said to him. “All we ask is that you let us take a data dump when we pass this way again.”

  “What if I don’t make it until then?” Charlie had asked.

  “Then just leave it someplace safe. We’ll find it,” the trader had replied.

  In return, Charlie Poindexter found himself leasing an amazingly low-priced spaceplane capable of making geosynchronous orbit and so of trading directly with the Interstellar Traders Collective. If they ever returned to the system. The bird and ship represented some of the strangest technology he had ever encountered. He was amazed at the abilities of the ship and surprised at the simulacrum, which was not really a parakeet at all but some artificial creation styled to look like a small household pet of the avian race that had crafted it. Something about that whole deal still nagged at the back of Charlie’s consciousness. Sure, the aliens were traders, but why did they need information on the attacking Gerin? Sure, any new military tactics were instantly salable—military intelligence was always salable. But there was hardly anything new about the Gerin’s attacks. They always had overwhelming numbers. Besides, traders avoided wars, they didn’t sneak into war zones just to get standard intelligence. But the birdlike trader had been so persistent, so dedicated to getting Charlie to accept the offer.

  Phoenicis Tower calling, the ship informed him.