The Far Stars War

by David Drake

  “Tell them that we are just landing long enough to pick up our cargo,” Charlie replied. “And tell that trader to have the goods ready as soon as we stop.”

  To Archimedes: “Get ready to download our first orbit into Risky Lady as we land.”

  The fake parakeet squawked. “She’s gonna refuse! And the tower will read her program and refuse you permission to launch.”

  “Override her,” Charlie replied calmly. Twenty minutes later, as Risky Lady launched at full throttle, Archimedes, on a command from Poindexter, overrode the ship’s intelligence and replotted its course. Risky Lady altered angle immediately after retracting her gear and went supersonic, to the loud protests of Phoenicis Tower.

  “Blame it on the war effort!” Poindexter told them.

  High up in the atmosphere, as the air grew too thin for the ramjets to operate, Risky Lady was switched to scramjets, which rapidly boosted her speed up to Mach 25. Instead of trimming for a low-energy Hohmann orbit, on Poindexter’s orders the simulacrum kept the thrust on to form a direct-ascent orbit.

  “This is gonna play hell on the fuel-cost balances!” the parakeet remarked.

  “We’ve got fuel to spare,” Charlie responded. “It’s the time I worry about. How are we?”

  “We’re right where you want us to be,” Archimedes responded. “It cost more fuel because of that hold at the gate, but we’re right on time.”

  Minutes later, Risky Lady was shifted from her scramjets to pure rockets, burning a combination of her standard hydrogen fuel with onboard oxygen. In seconds she was in a well-formed circular orbit three hundred kilometers above the planet’s surface. The former marine officer activated his magnetic soles and undid his seat harness.

  “We are within risk of detection by the enemy,” the parakeet noted. “It would have been wiser to shape a retrograde orbit with the planet between us.”

  “And have the GTO force and the GEO ships spot us?” Charlie shot back. “Get the airlock ready,” he ordered as he hurried toward the hold. Once inside the airlock, Charlie sealed a helmet over his one-piece shipsuit, then opened the lock connecting the cargo hold to the airlock bays. Using his pilot’s implant, he overrode several safety connections and caused the air in both the combined hold and the airlock bays to evacuate. He found the paint in the cargo bay and hauled it toward the airlock, carefully stacking the magnetized containers. Then he looked at the stacks of boxes that housed the umbrellas.

  “Time!” he called to Archimedes, not bothering with his implant. When he got no answer he shouted, repeating on his implant: “The second program, is it running?”

  “Affirmative. Time is seven eight zero, seven-nine, seven-eight . . .” Charlie shut out the droning of the simulacrum as he started a large clump of boxed umbrellas through the cargo hold and into the airlock bays. Through his ship connection he engaged the ship’s conveyor system. Not waiting to see the result, he manhandled another set and started them on the way. Somehow the parakeet got separated from him.

  “Just what is it you are trying to do, human?” the simulacrum asked in pompous tones.

  Charlie did not respond, setting the final group of boxed umbrellas in motion. Archimedes continued:

  “Even granting that the combined velocities of this ship and the enemy craft will be in excess of twenty kilometers per second, there is insufficient mass or rigidity in these umbrellas to pose a hazard to the enemy.”

  “That’s okay,” Charlie replied. He clambered around the massed umbrellas and climbed up to the airlock’s exit, an umbrella in each hand. He stopped, staring down at all the other ends that waited to be opened. With a shrug, he picked up an unopened umbrella in his artificial arm, ensured that it was properly aligned, and with a quick thrust forward popped the umbrella out into the darkness of Skylark’s shadow. He watched approvingly as the closed umbrella, looking like a thin javelin, streaked backward away from the ship.

  “The trajectory was not correct,” Archimedes chided.

  “In order to correctly align—”

  The ship silently started to rotate as control jets and then maneuvering jets cut in.

  “Time?” Charlie called.

  “Seven fifty-three,” Archimedes responded automatically. Then, “Human, this can’t work!”

  “Sure it can,” Charlie replied. “One umbrella every seventy-nine milliseconds”—another umbrella out and another as Poindexter spoke—“while we traverse inclination from plus twenty-eight point five to minus twenty-eight point five.” Another umbrella.

  After a few hundred umbrellas Charlie’s shoulder began to feel stretched. With his “arm” moving almost too fast to watch, the mechanism was remaining sound, but the flesh and blood attached was beginning to show the strain. Breaking only long enough to open another box of five hundred, he continued the process.

  By the time two thousand umbrellas had been jettisoned, his shoulder throbbed painfully. Two hundred later, the agony had spread until it was hard to breathe. After five hundred umbrellas, a tiny trickle of blood ran down the straining merchant’s chest. Still he couldn’t and didn’t halt. At one point, he distracted himself by reciting the roll call of his lost command. The ordeal seemed to last forever.

  “That was six hundred umbrellas,” the bird noted, “and each is taking longer,”

  “That’s all I need, and more,” Poindexter replied.

  Another umbrella.

  “That was eighty-eight milliseconds,” Archimedes chided. “And the one before was—” .

  “If you’ve got a better idea?” Charlie asked, straining to grab for another umbrella while chucking the first one.

  “Computers don’t have ideas, they analyze data,” Archimedes corrected him. “Data analysis: attach unit to fixed surface.”

  Charlie Poindexter stared at the simulacrum.

  “That’ll work!” he exclaimed, quickly unstrapping the physical connections to his artificial arm. The opening was raw and his shoulder bled where he had to pull the leads out of muscle and skin. At other times the action would have made him feel crippled, but not now. There simply wasn’t time. Twenty seconds later, Charlie Poindexter, one-armed, was feeding umbrellas up to his artificial arm, at the end of which Archimedes sat to control minutely its speed and accuracy. With the parakeet’s help he had precisely positioned the arm with magnetic clamps on the outside of the lock, securing both arm and simulacrum to the outer hull of the ship. Two minutes later, after one hundred and twenty seconds, the simulacrum had counted off one thousand five hundred and nineteen umbrellas.

  Charlie soon found that he had to climb back down into the hold in order to push the masses of umbrellas forward to get them onto the ship’s conveyor belt. Above him, through the link, Archimedes continually harangued him for not getting umbrellas to the arm fast enough. “That one was twenty microseconds behind, and its orbit is one thousandth of a degree off true!” the fake bird snapped.

  Charlie grimaced, pushing more umbrellas up with his remaining arm.

  “More!” the bird called.

  “Last one,” Charlie called back. He was sweating in his suit as he climbed up the ladder to the outside. Turning, he could see nothing of the last umbrella. All eight thousand were already lost in the darkness.

  “Are they on course?” he asked the artificial bird as he returned the arm to its socket. Without the imbedded connections, it felt awkward.

  “Nominally,” the parakeet responded, returning control of the arm to Charlie, adding after a long pause: “I fail to calculate—”

  It was abruptly cut off as the artificial arm grabbed and threw the simulacrum in the totally opposite direction from the distant umbrellas.

  “The information is safe!” Charlie called after the disappearing bird. Archimedes’ circuits had been too heavily involved in analyzing Poindexter’s reasons for the madness of throwing needlelike umbrellas in the
enemy’s path to note the surging link between the human and the artificial arm. Now, floating helplessly in space, the simulacrum found time to be fleetingly intrigued that a slow human brain, even augmented with implants, could outpace a well-programmed simulacrum.

  On board Risky Lady, Charlie Poindexter stared in the direction of the simulacrum for long moments. He shook himself.

  “Nothing but time on my hands,” he said. Then he laughed. “Boy! That damn bird must be pissed!” He undid the magnetic clamp on his artificial arm and carefully reattached it to his shoulder. With a mental sigh, he flexed it once or twice and smiled, in control once more. He sobered suddenly, chiding himself: “What about the Lady? She’ll be sore!” He hurried to the bridge and freed the restraints Archimedes had put on the intelligence module that normally controlled the Risky Lady.

  THERE IS NO PROFIT IN THIS! Risky Lady shouted immediately, using all uppercase to print out the same message on every screen on the bridge. You must restore this ship to full functionality!

  Sorry, babe, Charlie responded. No dice.

  He turned around, facing in the direction of travel.

  Sun’s going to come up soon, and we’ll be in a polar orbit, he remarked conversationally to the Lady.

  How could you waste so much fuel? the ship demanded.

  It doesn’t matter, Lady.

  Charlie sighed contentedly, turning back to stare out the forward port at the darkest side of the planet as they headed toward the terminator. His arm still ached, but he would soon see if it had been worth it. They had also been up here a long time; they were lucky no Gerin patrol had spotted them. Soon they would move into direct observation of the Gerin fleet. After more than a minute he spoke.

  Listen, in about ten minutes it’s going to get pretty hectic. I want you to do me one last favor.

  I cannot see how ownership can be changed, the ship’s computer responded, You will tell the Gerin ships that this is a trading ship, intended only for peaceful profit! Maybe then they’ll not blow us apart. I am not programmed to attack. Only military ships are capable of such.

  Charlie filed that bit of surprising information and then responded, You’ve just been commissioned.

  The merchant expected to find himself either ignored or restrained for piracy. After all, the ship was just a loan. Surprisingly, Risky Lady responded in yet another new voice. By whose authority?

  Poindexter was taken aback. He had not for a moment expected that the ship’s programming would include a change of prime purpose. Finally he managed, By the authority of my appointment as an officer by the king of the Royal Islands. Bitterly he tried not to remember the Royal Islands had been overrun six weeks earlier.

  That will do, the ship acquiesced. What do you want of me? We can charge into the enemy and probably . . .

  Charlie found the difference between the merchant and military programming of his ship startling. Nope. I want you to stay on this course until I tell you and then thrust us directly above the enemy’s formation. All of the time send that we are a merchant interested in selling information. They must have seen traitors before.

  The enemy will destroy us when we approach too closely or remain too long, the ship informed him. This is not a good battle plan. I could suggest a number of approaches more likely to, achieve success. One has an almost eleven percent probability of successfully damaging a Gerin warship. I

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. Could they have programmed this baby for military operations? he asked himself. Sure, he decided. If they can stick all the books ever written onto a molecular chip one centimeter square, why not throw some basic tactics onto a trader? Especially one which, he was sure, was especially made by those bird-brain ITC traders. It was a shame to waste it.

  My plan will have to do, Charlie responded as they arrived at the terminator. Below him the day faded to night.

  Enemy ships are seven thousand kilometers away, and closing, the ship informed him.

  Contact in nine minutes, Charlie responded.

  And eighteen point five seconds, the ship corrected.

  Based upon prior behavior, I predict that they will detect us in two hundred and twenty-four point seven eight seconds.

  Let me know when you get a definite contact, Charlie responded. As soon as I tell you, start that maneuver.

  How far above the formation should I arrive? the ship wanted to know.

  Near enough to scare ‘em, I don’t care, Charlie responded. He climbed down the ladder. Maneuver now so that this airlock is pointing on an intersecting path.

  Jets coughed, stars whirled, jets coughed again, and stars stabilized.

  Done.

  Charlie looked out, but saw nothing in particular. With great care he centered himself on the airlock docking marks. With his artificial arm he began heaving out the two hundred one-gallon cans of paint. His shoulder began to ache again, but the pain was tolerable and he didn’t dare risk the dullness a pain-killing drug would have as a side effect.

  Are- you throwing out some form of secret weapon loaded while I was inactive? the ship inquired.

  Sort of, Charlie replied as he heaved another.

  Radar lock! They have spotted us, the ship’s computer warned.

  Great. Hold steady. Charlie kept heaving. Ninety.

  Ninety-one, ninety-two, Charlie counted to himself.

  I detect small arms being fired at your projectiles, the ship told him. They have vaporized the first four.

  Beautiful! Charlie allowed himself a smile. One-forty-two, one-forty-three ... he counted as he threw the paint out of the hold. He was panting. His artificial arm might be doing the throwing, but the rest of his body was doing the lifting and countering the recoil. Once more he found himself working in a fog of pain.

  Energy beams! We are just beyond range, the ship warned.

  If they shoot at us, execute that maneuver! Charlie responded. One-eighty-nine, Suddenly his view changed and he felt himself being pushed against the floor. The new bruises didn’t make his shoulder feel any better.

  They fired at us, the ship explained. Their beams are following us! Missile launch! One hundred seconds to intercept!

  * * *

  The airlock glowed brightly, then red-hot. Charlie Poindexter shielded his eyes as he dived for the ladder to the bridge. He never reached it.

  Far back in space, the simulacrum Archimedes detected the thermal signature of plasma weapons as they tore through the hull of Risky Lady. In seconds, nothing was left of the spaceplane but a molten mass. Dispassionately, the simulacrum noted that its calculations had been correct. The paint flung out of the ship and fired upon by the Gerin had spread into a large vaporized cloud which wrapped the enemy fleet like black ink from a squid. As the fleet emerged from the cloud, the simulacrum noted that some of the ships, including the largest, had been well coated with the black paint. The simulacrum devoted some microseconds to calculating the average temperature rise if the aliens did nothing to remove it. Dispassionately, it noted that the rise would be well within standard limits. It would have no effect. Further, Archimedes calculated that the paint would not provide sufficient interference to reduce the enemy’s ability to detect and avoid ramming the thousands of umbrellas which would shortly clear the planet’s shadow and . . .

  With a sudden burst of understanding the very sophisticated computer known as Archimedes almost wished it could turn around to see the umbrellas opening.

  Each electronically neutral and unthreatening umbrella orbited slowly toward the Gerin fleet. As the Gerin fleet and its trailing swarm of umbrellas cleared the planet’s shadow, each umbrella heated slowly until the bimetallic springs reached a critical temperature. One by one, but in increasing numbers, the umbrellas fanned open to catch the sun’s rays and shine-in a nearly perfect parabola with constantly changing focus, directly on the largest ship of the Gerin fleet!

 
; With the speed of its kind, the amazingly complicated microcomputer that almost resembled an Earth parakeet completed its calculations. Each umbrella was coated with a near-perfect reflective surface. It had often noted how humans always used their best materials for their luxuries. Perhaps five thousand of the umbrellas, each spread about a meter apart, retained their alignment. Each umbrella was two meters in diameter, and the light intensity of this star at this distance was 1,400 watts per square meter. That was a total reflected energy of 4,398 watts per umbrella. As they entered the light, the otherwise inoffensive umbrellas opened and concentrated the sunlight on the still unshielded Gerin ship. The Gerin flagship, not being threatened by anything electronic or massive enough to attract attention, was not even at alert.

  The simulacrum watched the bright white spot form on that large ship, glow as the hull grew hotter and hotter, as twenty-two megawatts focused on that one spot for slightly over three hundred seconds. The large ship distended and finally, with alarming speed, exploded in a large cloud of debris as its hull fatally and unexpectedly ruptured.

  With an almost human glee in the silent void of space, Archimedes crowed at the cooling mass of debris that had been the Risky Lady, “Frag the flagship! Frag the flagship! Craaaaw!”

  ALIENS ARE, by definition, different. They have different physical structure and developed in often radically varied environments. The Gerin’s differences made them a challenging opponent. Their similarities made a collision with man inevitable.

  The Gerin are true amphibians. A Gerin is octopoidal—that is, it is radially symmetrical and has eight arms. These arms are much stronger than those of any earth octopus, as they are adapted to carrying weight as well as to locomotion. Each arm ends in two “fingers.” The average Gerin weighs over two hundred pounds and is stronger than a human. A large centralized eye is capable of discriminating fine details and is supplemented by two much smaller light-sensitive organs that are barely visible higher on the Gerin’s face.