The Far Stars War

by David Drake

Usq-Usq-Tweed caught sight of Blake. “You dog!” he shouted. “You tricked me! For that you die!”

  He aimed a handgun at Blake, who tried to dodge out of the way. But Darfur was already firing. A blaster was something never used aboard ship for fear of holing it. But Darfur had adjusted for range and was hoping for the best. He cut down the Gerin commander as he rushed at them. Blake had picked up another weapon, a laser projector, and was cutting around him with deadly effect.

  “Careful with that!” Darfur shouted. The laser sliced through the remaining Gerin warrior. Darfur managed to switch the weapon off before Blake could pierce the hull.

  “Good work!” Darfur cried. He rushed to the control console, pushing bits of chopped Gerin out of the way. “Now to signal the fleet and get out of here!”

  “Actually,” Blake said, “I think it’s a little too late for that.” He pointed to the rearview monitors.

  Far away, but closing rapidly, Darfur could see dozens of Gerin globeships that had downwarped out of FTL space.

  “What do you suggest now?” Darfur asked.

  “They think we’re still on their side,” Blake said.

  “Retreat until we’re in range, then open fire on them. With any luck, the Point Bravo flotilla will pull themselves together and follow.”

  Darfur laughed with glee when he realized how beautiful the scheme was. The Gerin were caught in their own trap! The Trojan Horse ship, which was supposed to open the way through Earth’s defenses, would serve as a Trojan Horse for the other side, too.

  “Great plan,” Darfur said, his fingers dancing on the computer keys. “You’ve done it, Blake! Made them stick their neck out. Now we can get in there and really do some hitting. “

  He had the ship turned now and racing toward the Gerin fleet, which held its fire, believing Usq-Usq-Tweed and his men were still in control. The intercom squabbled with questions directed to the dead Usq-Usq-Tweed.

  Darfur said, “We’re coming into range. Tell your men to stand ready to fire.”

  “There’s only one thing,” Blake said.

  “What is it?”

  “My men don’t know anything about gunnery. They can swing a cudgel or use a dagger with the best of them, as you’ve seen. But as for laser cannon and plasma torpedoes, they haven’t a clue.”

  “Great,” Darfur said. “If we can’t protect ourselves, those globeships will take us out before the Earth fleet can come to our aid.”

  As he spoke, the viewplate showed the globe discharging small fighter craft.

  “Oh, we’re going to fight them,” Blake said. “We’re going to use every weapon the enemy has so thoughtfully put at our disposal. The thing is, you are going to have to control it all. “

  “But how can I? Even if I try to tell each man what he should do, it would take too long. We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “I think we can fix that,” Blake said. “With telepathy. You’ll have to control all the guns, Darfur, via telepathic circuit. We can take you into the hookup—if you’re willing. “

  “No!” Darfur said. Like many people, he had a deep-seated fear of mental control. The idea of Blake and these freaks sharing his mind... no, it was intolerable.

  “You have to do it!” Blake said. “It’s the only chance!”

  “I can’t do that!” Darfur said.

  “Commander,” Blake said, “you’d better give it a try.”

  Darfur grimaced, then nodded glumly. “All right. What do I do?”

  “Just try to be receptive,” Blake said. He closed his eyes. Darfur felt something tug at his mind, something huge and terrible. He resisted for a moment, then forced himself to give in to it.

  There was a terrible moment of vertigo, in which Darfur thought he was going out of his mind. Then abruptly his vision cleared.

  But he wasn’t looking out of his own eyes anymore.

  He was in Blake’s head, looking at himself.

  “Good,” Blake said. “Now try to move around. The crew has been warned. You can take over.”

  Darfur got control of himself and pushed out with his mind. He felt himself passing through darkness. Then all of a sudden he had a simultaneous view through many eyes. With the rapidity of thought he was in a dozen different heads at the same time. He tried to pump his knowledge of modern weaponry into the freaks, but it was faster finally to dart from mind to mind, taking over for a moment, sighting and shooting, adjusting, firing again as they bored into the Gerin fleet.

  The Gerin hesitated, trying to figure out what had happened to Usq-Usq-Tweed’s scheme. Then they started firing back. Darfur now had another task, not just to fire the weapons, but to continue adjusting the screens, which were threatening to go into overload. It became a mad dance for him, the finale of a circus of horror in which he was the one who gave the order to fire, the one who pushed the button, and also the missile itself, arcing out into space.

  The ship’s screens flickered and began to waver. Darfur had to forget about the weapons and put his full attention to maintaining the shields. He knew it would be a matter of moments before a voltage drop let the screens open long enough for a missile to come through. And what annoyed him was that he couldn’t even hit back. But then he realized that he was hitting back, because plasma torpedoes were streaking past him, taking out fighters, trying to home in on the globeships.

  Had his crew learned how to shoot from his example?

  Impossible. And anyhow, there was no accounting for the sheer number of torpedoes racing past him. Someone must have come to his aid.

  He turned to his rear-vision viewplate and saw Admiral Van Dyne’s flotilla coming up fast behind him. One globeship was gone and the others were trying to scramble back into FTL space.

  * * *

  “A classic Trojan Horse maneuver,” Admiral Van Dyne said. “Only you turned it against them. Turned it into a Trojan hearse! I really must congratulate you, Commander Darfur. I’ve read of such things in the history of early space battles, but never thought I’d live to see one performed.”

  They were in the admiral’s lounge aboard his command dreadnought, the Saratoga. Elements of the fleet were already out mopping up those elements of the Gerin fleet that had not been able to upwarp in time to escape destruction. The Barnum had survived, scorched and battered, leaking air from a dozen points, a quarter of her crew of circus people dead and another third suffering more or less serious injuries.

  “Sir,” Darfur said, “I have to tell you, I had very little to do with this fine victory. The credit belongs entirely to Blake. It was his scheme, and it was undertaken at great cost to his people. I only assisted in the final stage.”

  “The fighting against the Gerin, you mean?” Van Dyne asked.

  “Yes, sir. I was able to assist with some of the more exotic weaponry they had brought aboard.”

  “I’ve been Wondering about that,” Van Dyne said.

  “How were those freaksable to operate that weaponry?”

  Darfur was about to tell Van Dyne about the telepathic linkup, then stopped himself. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the circus people’s precarious security. If it became generally known that they were indeed telepathic, it might go badly for them when they tried to bring their circus to different worlds.

  “I ran around a lot, sir,” Darfur said. “They really learned amazingly fast.”

  Van Dyne seemed about to say something, then thought better of it. He smiled—a rare sight on his grim battle-scarred old face.

  “However it was done, it was well done.”

  “Thank you, sir. What will happen to the Barnum and Blake and his people now?”

  “We’ve already taken his people into the infirmary. We’ll save all we can. The ship will be repaired by our armorers. I offered Blake a commission in our forces.”

  “What did he say, sir?”

&nbs
p; “Wasn’t interested. That’s the way it is with freaks. You can’t tell what they’ll do next.”

  “I suppose not, sir. I suppose he’ll go back to circusing.”

  “All in good time,” Van Dyne said. “Actually, he proposed that we refit his ship and turn him loose as a freebooter. A privateer. He could cause some merry hell in some of the neutral zones which the Gerin have been invading.”

  “Sounds like a good idea, sir,” Darfur said. “He’s a first -class fighting man-as well as a pretty good circus’ man.”

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t at first. But it’s difficult not to like a man you’ve fought beside.”

  “That’s what I thought. Blake pointed out that he would need a trained officer aboard to help maintain the weapons systems and train his crew.”

  “Good idea,” Darfur said.

  “He asked especially for you.”

  “Did he, sir?” Darfur flushed with pleasure. He could think of nothing better than ranging through space with Blake and his circus men in search of Gerin to kill. But then a thought struck him.

  “This would be a first-class assignment, sir. But I’m afraid it ought to go to an officer with more seniority than I have.”

  “I discussed that point with Blake,” Van Dyne said.

  “He was insistent that it be you. He said that you had another talent that was valuable to them, one not usually found in the armed forces.”

  “What was that, sir?” Darfur said.

  “He said that you have the makings of a first-class clown. That ability will be important if the Barnum is to carry on secret missions on the fringes of Gerin-occupied territory. “

  “He said I was a good clown, sir?” Darfur said.

  “He said you had the makings of one,” Van Dyne said. “Why? Does the occupation appeal to you?”

  “Not at all, sir,” Darfur said. “But I like to do whatever I do well. Can I go speak with Blake now?”

  “Go ahead,” Van Dyne said. “This assignment is going to be dangerous. But I’ll tell you this—if I were a hundred years younger, I’d pull all the strings in creation to be assigned to the Barnum along with you. Dismissed!”

  Darfur rushed off to find Blake. And so began the notable exploits of the privateer P. T. Barnum.

  SIX MONTHS after the destruction of his home planet, Mac had gathered ships and troops from four worlds. After his victory at Gemini, this total tripled in a matter of weeks. Even so, the League of Free Planets, which comprised the largest, richest, and best-armed planets in the Far Stars region, stubbornly maintained their independence.

  The raid on Klaremont was likely a reconnaissance in force by the Gerin. One of the greatest problems both sides faced was ferreting out the opposition worlds among the thousands of uninhabited planets in even this sparsely filled portion of the galaxy. At this point, it can be speculated that the main deterrent to Mac’s leading those forces he had gathered in a revenge attack on the Gerin homeworld was that no one was sure of its exact location. Not that the humans and their allies weren’t trying—they simply hadn’t managed to be sure the location they had ascertained was correct. And there would be only one chance at this point, and at the cost of more worlds enslaved or destroyed.

  Klaremont was a most unusual planet, even before the Gerin attack. It had developed a wide range of avian life forms, to the virtual exclusion of all others. Most were brightly colored, and their calls, almost without exception, were melodious. Overhead, four most unusual moons, all tectonically active, filled every night’s sky with new wonders. All this, when combined with a gentle equatorial climate, had enabled Klaremont to become a very successful resort world. Also found on this planet were the estates of the rich and powerful in the League of Free Planets.

  The hostilities began when an orbital station spotted three Gerin globeships (roughly equivalent to light cruisers) entering the system. The planet’s only intrinsic defense was a small force of planetary fighters manned by police and customs officers. Even so, these rose in the hope that by sheer number or luck they could destroy the Gerin invaders. Vessels were then dispatched for aid, even though it would take almost a week to arrive. At great cost, these lightly armed fighters disabled one ship, but were unable to prevent the escape of the other two Gerin vessels.

  Request for aid had gone out to both the League navy and Mac’s force, which was still orbiting Gemini. Apologists explain Mac’s inaction by saying that he was still integrating the Gemini ships into his force and unprepared for battle. Most League historians assert that he was quite willing to sacrifice the two hundred thousand humans on Klaremont if their loss might compel the League to join in his crusade against the Gerin.

  The League forces, spread over worlds varying from three days’ to two weeks’ flight apart, arrived separately and were forced uncoordinated into battle with the returning Gerin. The Gerin forces also grew in spurts, likely caused by their having been dispersed in the search for human worlds.

  Where most space battles last no more than a few hours, the defense of Klaremont lasted over a week. It ended successfully only when Mac arrived at the head of his newly enlarged fleet. During that week Klaremont was changed from near paradise to a cratered hell. Most of the world’s inhabitants died or were injured. This included the families of over half the League Council. Even then, the League politicians were reluctant to join with Mac, whom they rightfully saw as a fanatic. In the weeks after the relief of Klaremont, Mac fought the war not with ships and marines, but with press releases and propaganda. Meanwhile, he personally toured every planet in the League, campaigning harder than any office seeker.

  “C’MON, SMILE,” the voice of Vinson, the trivideo cameraman, came over Sergeant Barlow’s headset. “Look confident. You’re going to bust those Gerin bastards. Show me you believe it.”

  What the hell am I doing here? Barlow mused, mustering a grimace that seemed to please Vinson. The sergeant was a stocky, muscular man with a heavy jaw like a bulldog’s. He crouched in the bushes, overlooking what had to be the universe’s most fetid swamp. You volunteered, you dummy. When they asked for volunteers from all the marine detachments for a special mission, you stood in line, and let them go “You. You. And you. “

  At least there were none of the usual precombat jitters among his men. No, what they seemed to be exhibiting was stage fright. Not exactly the best frame of mood for fighting men to be in. Barlow cursed Captain Avix for agreeing to such a boneheaded project as making a live combat video for the folks back home.

  “We need the League of Free Planets to rally behind us,” Avix explained apologetically to the ranks of men who had “volunteered” for the mission. “Support for this war is not as heavy as we would like—as we need. This will make good publicity, show that we’re banding together to stamp out the Gerin Menace.” The media types always seemed to speak in their own cliches.

  It was more likely to stamp out the menace of Barlow and his men. Not only was the need for such a manned attack spurious, but the major difference between this and a real mission was the way the troop had been chosen. Captain Avix had gone down the line with a thin, languid civilian, who would nod or shake his head whenever the captain glanced at him. In the end, they had the right number, but the wrong mix of specialties for a mission of this kind. Barlow knew it, and he knew Avix knew it. Hardly any of the regulars fanned out among the ferns behind him had ever worked with Barlow before. He had taken stock of them in the shuttle. They were good fighters. None of them had visible wounds or prosthetics. In fact, it seemed as if the producer who had reviewed the troops by Avix’s side had chosen all the pretty boys and girls; the better for camera exposure, he guessed. In case that wasn’t enough, not even the heavy squad was allowed any powered armor. Seems it didn’t photograph well, hid the man inside too well.

  Still, the sergeant’s real concern was that lack of wounds l
ikely meant lack of combat experience. Of course, a media man wouldn’t care about that.

  “Absolutely true,” Vinson confirmed Barlow’s thoughts in the shuttle on the drop to Skylark’s surface. “He only wants the shayna punim for this film. He picked you for your looks, too, because you’re the stereotypical gruff leader.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t they want us to come home again?”

  Vinson lifted his hands helplessly. “They want to see a victory. It’s better publicity than a loss. At least you haven’t got a junior lieutenant in the way this time. The billet’s all yours. If anyone can pull a diverse lot like this into a fighting unit in thirty minutes, it’s you. Look, Sergeant, I’m a retired soldier myself. This is my job. Most of my equipment is incorporated into my suit, so there’s no extra luggage to carry. I won’t get in your way, and if I get hurt, I know where my medpak is. Just do what you’ve got to do, and I’ll record the action for the folks back home.”

  “I don’t want this video to be the last thing my folks ever see of me,” Private Hotchkiss grumbled into his helmet mike to his buddy Pete Omaya, standing at ready a meter away.

  Vinson overheard the remark and smiled at him. His short, grizzled hair capped a weathered face that except for its finely lined texture could have been that of a man in his thirties. “That’s up to you, son. I don’t make news. I just record it. You just do what the sergeant tells you, and you’ll get home.” Hotchkiss blushed, and Omaya grinned sheepishly into his collar.

  Barlow was flattered by the snap judgment of his abilities, and wondered if Vinson had been soaping him just to make him calm down. He must have been a good officer when he was in the service.

  Now Barlow was lying here in the mud smiling pretty for the cameras, and listening to the cameraman on the touchline muttering narration into his unit’s audio pickup. He understood his men’s resentment. If the mission wasn’t balanced between specialties, their chances of getting out were lessened, and they knew it wasn’t, no matter how gung ho and cooperative they were with one another. His best spotter was back on the transport ship. Not good-looking enough for the video, Barlow guessed. Well, that was likely true. Minkus had a face like a parrot, but he had a second sense about where Gerin ordnance and sensors were hidden. Barlow had had to make do with Corporal Scott, a much less experienced though prettier noncom.