by Larry Niven
“So strategic matrices are your predictive tool. Why do you spend so much time and effort developing the damn things?”
“There is a fundamental difference. We apply them to the socio-political arena, which does not include feedback loops as large or rapid as those at work in the market. We can in fact make reasonable predictions and expect to be correct, within error bars. The future may evolve along widely different lines, but the lines, at least, can be assessed in advance, the critical path junctions identified, and sometimes we can act to induce events to unfold along one path instead of another, by influencing individuals who in turn can influence events at these critical points.” The dolphin paused and seemed to be reflecting on something. “It is of course an error-prone process, and we lack the ability to repeat our experiments.”
“You don’t inspire much confidence.”
“Were you looking for confidence?” If Curvy was human her voice might have been sardonic. “I thought you were looking for Captain Cherenkova.” Curvy turned to her console. “If you will excuse me, Colonel, I have much work to do.” She looked at her console, manipulator tentacles tapping. “I would enjoy talking with you again, if you like.”
Later Tskombe sat in the courier’s tiny wardroom with Khalsa. The Navy commander produced coffee in bulbs, pretended not to be offended when Tskombe added synthetic crème de cacao from the food processor.
“I don’t understand what you’re doing here. You’ve taken tremendous risks to help me, on Curvy’s recommendation, but Curvy herself has no confidence in her strategic matrices. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Astute observation, but there is another factor.”
“Which is?”
Khalsa leaned back and sipped his coffee. “Consider the Second Punic War. Hannibal is outnumbered, undersupplied, outmaneuvered, still he wins battle after battle. He doesn’t win by force of numbers, he wins by outthinking his opponents. This is not a statistical fluke; he manages to beat the odds. In the markets, you’ve heard of Markland Stage?”
“The financier?”
“He started from nothing and made his two percent per day, until he owned too much of the system to keep beating it like that. There are other examples. Henry V of England, Erwin Rommel, Gael Sistorny. There are those who do beat the odds, people who are so far out on the bell curve that the math simply doesn’t work for them anymore. Consider: the emergence of Hannibal’s military genius could have been predicted, in probabilistic terms at least, given sufficient data. Predicting the specific tactics Scipio Africanus might use in any given battle is much more difficult, but this was exactly what Hannibal excelled at. There are commanders, like Hannibal, like Alexander, like Genghis Khan, who not only win consistently despite the material and numerical superiority of their enemies but who defy statistics as well, a much more difficult feat. How they do it we don’t know, maybe they’re just extremely lucky. The important thing is, they do it.”
“And you think I’m that person?”
“No. Curvy is that person. Strategic matrices are an old tool, but it takes more than tools to make a craftsman. Curvy knows how to use her tools. If she tells me that sending you to Kzinhome will make a difference, I’ll send you to Kzinhome.”
“Curvy is not a commander.”
“Dolphins don’t have commanders. They don’t form large-scale societies, and they don’t fight wars, certainly not as we know them. Nevertheless, Curvy’s predictions are accurate. She knows what has to go into a matrix, she knows what has to stay out. She beats the odds, Colonel. If she’s betting on you, I’m betting on you.”
Tskombe reflected on that for awhile. “Curvy had to update the matrix. She didn’t have all the information. How do you know she has it all now?”
“I don’t. Updates are an ongoing process. The amount of information entropy, basically how much we don’t know, is computed in the matrix.”
“Ever have it happen that new information turns your calculations upside down?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you do then?”
“What else can we do? We recalculate and keep trying to influence events toward positive outcomes.”
“Positive in your own definition.”
“Of course.”
Tskombe shook his head. “I can only imagine you use more forms of influence than tracking down potential deserters to make them an offer they can’t refuse.”
“Different people respond to different incentives.” Khalsa shrugged. “In a case like yours, the decisions likely to lead to positive outcomes for you are aligned with those likely to lead to positive outcomes for us. Sometimes we have to change a target individual’s choice set to ensure they make the right choice.”
“Change their choice set…” Tskombe contemplated the wall, recognizing a euphemism when he heard one, then looked up to meet Khalsa’s gaze. “Does the matrix ever tell you to kill someone?”
Khalsa stood up. “I should check our navigation.” He left Tskombe to himself.
Tskombe watched him go. Khalsa didn’t play by any rules but his own. An intelligence branch with a certain degree of freedom. He reports to the Secretary of War, but the Secretary doesn’t want to know what he’s doing so he can deny knowledge later. Now the Secretary of War is being replaced and Khalsa is acting entirely on his own, with no oversight whatsoever. His goals are positive, but this is a dangerous thing in a world that’s supposed to be free. But the UN wasn’t a free society; it wasn’t even the freest of all societies. That was just what they taught children in social studies class, and when they were taught young they tended to keep believing it on an emotional level, even when the facts they lived with every day were very different. I believed it myself, until I went away and came back.
It was a two-day flight to the edge of the singularity and hyperspace. Trina recovered, slowly. She had been hit much harder by the mercy needles than he had, and so managed to absorb the care and attention of Khalsa, Tskombe, and Virenze, Valiant’s petite but tough copilot. Trina looked tiny and fragile even in the narrow bunk of her closet-sized cabin, and though the effects of the tranquilizers had worn off she still slept a great deal, only picking at the food she was brought. They fell into a routine over her care. It was a surprisingly comfortable arrangement for Tskombe. Khalsa, unlike Curvy, asked no uncomfortable questions either about her, or, so far as Tskombe could tell, of her. Her withdrawal was disturbing at first, but she seemed to need the quiet, if not to recover from the mercy drugs then to recover from the rest of her life. And fair enough that she should.
“Why did you come back for me?” she asked him once.
“I couldn’t leave you there.”
“Why not?” She sounded almost resentful. “There are thousands like me, millions. What difference does it make?”
“It makes a difference to you.”
And she had no answer for that, and when she turned over in her bunk to cry he rubbed her back to comfort her, feeling slightly awkward. There were fine scars there, and no doubt more he couldn’t see, both on her skin and in her heart. Some of her clients wouldn’t be nice at all. He found himself wondering what depravities this woman-child had endured, and shuddered.
Flight in the cramped courier didn’t suit Tskombe’s style, but his company was congenial enough. The copilot, Virenze, was a dark-haired woman who’d been in the first attack on Atraxa. She was serious and taciturn, obviously competent but not very social, and he imagined Ayla Cherenkova had been like this early in her career, before she had enough rank to allow herself to relax off duty. Her skill as a pilot wasn’t in doubt; she’d shot the direct descent profile singlehanded and put the ship down within meters of its target. He found himself spending more time with Curvy. At first it was simply because Trina spent all her time in the observation blister, and the dolphin’s hold was the only other space in the ship where he didn’t feel cramped, but he found her interesting company. He challenged Curvy to chess, not expecting to win but hoping to learn someth
ing in the effort. The games weren’t successful; Curvy won so quickly Tskombe never had a chance to learn, and Tskombe posed no challenge at all as an opponent. They switched to go, which whiled away a pleasant day, though Curvy won four games in five, and finally settled on poker, which was an even match. They played for imaginary salmon, which seemed to appeal to the dolphin’s sense of humor, especially when she was winning.
They were in the middle of a game when Khalsa came on the in-com. “Passengers to crash stations. We’ve got trouble.”
Tskombe checked to make sure Trina was belted into her acceleration couch in her room, then went up to the cockpit. He got there just as he went weightless, but he was used to being weightless on troop transports. The pilots were pouring everything into the drive polarizers, and cabin gravity was a waste of power. He shouldn’t have been there, but they didn’t send him away. They were strapped into their command couches, vac suits on but helmets off.
“What’s the problem?”
In response Virenze hit keys on the display controls. The starscape spun until a warship floated in it, black on black, streamlined for semi-atmospheric operation, weapons blisters faired into the hull.
“What’s that?”
Khalsa made a face. “It’s a cruiser, Viking class, and it is coming fast on an intercept course. They’ll be in firing range in four hours.”
Tskombe nodded. “What do they want?”
“They want you. I’ve been ordered to stop and hand you over.”
“What are you going to do about it?” It was a rhetorical question; Khalsa had already demonstrated he wasn’t going to give Tskombe over to his pursuers, though a brief thrill of fear ran through him at the thought that he might be caught this close to escape.
“We can run, and we can pray. We’re a fast ship and we’re not far from the edge of the singularity, but they’re fast too, and we’re low on power after that direct descent on Earth.”
“You don’t mind defying Navy orders?”
“They can’t give me orders; they aren’t in my chain of command. This isn’t the first time we’ve run clandestine missions the Navy doesn’t know about.”
The Secretary of War is gone, so you don’t have a chain of command. Tskombe kept that thought to himself. “Your high clearance ident isn’t enough?”
“I tried it. They still want you. Looks like the new Secretary General has the whole scenario figured out. They don’t want you loose.”
“Are you sure it’s me they want?”
Khalsa laughed. “They’ll take me, too. Ravalla’s crew has been sparring with us, Curvy and me and the rest of the WarSec team, for a long time now.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Maximum boost until we’re at minimum power for the hyperspace jump, then shut it right down and drift, and hope they have a sensor glitch. If they give it up and go home we’ll jump and call for help when we hit Wunderland. The Wunderlanders have no love of the UN. They’ll send a ship out to get us, and we’ll deal with the red tape later.”
“Can we fight?”
“We’ve got two missiles and two light turrets. We haven’t got a hope against a cruiser. I have a couple of tricks up my sleeve; maybe they’ll make a mistake. I’d rather not start shooting at our own side, but I will if I have to.”
Tskombe nodded, watching the display. The cruiser grew gradually larger while Khalsa reworked his intercept data. Tskombe should have gone back to his cabin and strapped in, at least gone back to make sure Trina was okay, but Khalsa didn’t order him to do it. He’d grown too accustomed to being in the picture. He thought back to his combat drops, times when he’d had no idea what was going on, which jolt was violent evasive action and which was the hit that was about to kill him. It was a helpless feeling, and he’d always been eager for the hard, unmistakable slam followed by sudden stillness that meant the landing skids had hit the ground. He’d be unstrapped and running even before the landing ramp blew down, leading in the ground assault. His troops thought it was heroism; they’d told him so. In reality it was desperation to get off the shuttle and into a situation where he had some semblance of control over his own fate. Not that I have any control here. The thought came unbidden, and he wished Ayla was piloting. He was sure Khalsa was a perfectly competent pilot. He’d never flown with Ayla, but something about her told him she was an ace. And more important than that, if she were here, we would be together.
Time seemed to creep and fly at the same time. Virenze had set the mission clock to reach zero when the cruiser was in firing range, and while the last seconds seemed to last forever the previous four hours had simply vanished. There was a distant, hydraulic whine as Valiant’s turrets traversed, and a series of faint, almost subaural thuds.
“Dusters out.” Virenze’s voice was terse. Behind them the canisters would burst into clouds of finely divided aluminum dust, which would disperse and absorb laser pulses, to a degree, and as long as Khalsa could keep them between Valiant and the cruiser. “Missiles?”
Khalsa shook his head. “Wait until he fires first. They may be trying to provoke us into providing an incident.”
They waited tensely. The mission clock ticked up positive seconds. The faint thuds of the turrets came again as the ship’s AI launched more dusters automatically. Minutes later it did it again, and the cruiser still hadn’t fired. Tskombe began to think that perhaps they wouldn’t when an alarm sounded, subdued but urgent, and a red icon appeared on the pilot’s central plot board.
“Missile launch,” Virenze reported. She studied her instruments. “Looks like four contacts.”
“Tanjit.” Khalsa’s expletive showed that he too had hoped there might not be a fight. “Launch screeners, get us a solution for our own missiles.” He tapped course commands into his console. “And see if you can get some screeners in their course funnel while you’re at it.”
Virenze’s hands flew over the controls. “Defensive screeners away…” She paused. “Missiles are locked; recommend we delay launch until he’s closer.” She tapped another command. “And he’ll be flying through a dozen shot canisters. I delayed their burst until the last moment. Maybe he won’t see them in time.”
“Maybe.” Khalsa’s voice was doubtful. The screener canisters were loaded with millimeter-sized iridium balls, unlike the fine powder the dusters carried. A missile flying through the ball screen at tens of kilometers per second relative velocity would be shredded if it hit even one. A warship’s armor could take more, but they could cause enough damage to be dangerous. If the Navy captain didn’t pick up the trap his ship might get taken out of the fight before it had truly started. It was more likely he would pick it up, but at least then he’d have to waste acceleration avoiding it, which would buy Valiant a little more time. At this point, though, buying time was just an exercise in delaying the inevitable.
“Their missiles are tracking…Drive signature shows B-mark twos.” Virenze’s voice was taut.
“Lasers to point-defense mode.” Khalsa nudged the controls and the cabin gravity surged to compensate, momentarily tugging Tskombe to the floor.
“Screeners bursting in his course funnel…” Virenze paused. “…Now!” Another pause. “He isn’t evading, he’s…no, he’s seen them, he’s going outsystem.”
Khalsa nodded. “Staying between us and the singularity edge. He’s smart enough, that captain.”
Tskombe looked out the transpax, feeling there should be some sensation of motion, some sight of the enemy, but there was nothing. The entire battle was being played out on instruments, and they would live or die based on the cryptic readouts.
“He’s entering our launch window.”
“Launch now.” Khalsa’s voice was terse, and the deck thudded dully once, then twice, as Valiant’s single pair of seekers punched out under maximum acceleration. Two more red icons appeared on the plot board. “We’ve done all we can.”
Suddenly two of the cruiser’s missiles vanished from the plot. “Looks like w
e got two with the screeners, sir.” Even as Virenze said it another icon vanished. “Make that three.”
“It isn’t over yet. He’s reloading his launch bay.”
“Fourth missile’s gotten through.” Virenze’s voice didn’t waver, though Tskombe felt adrenaline rush through his system.
“More screeners, sound collision and override acceleration limits.” Khalsa looked over his shoulder at Tskombe. “Get out of here, it’s going to get rough.” Tskombe turned to go as the pilot firewalled the throttles. Gravity came back as he reached the door, but it was facing backward and not down, and he found himself falling to the cockpit’s back wall. His weight built inexorably, until he could barely breathe. There was no question now of getting to the acceleration couch in his cabin. He was going to ride out the battle where he was.
“It’s through, sir!” Virenze sounded scared for the first time.
Khalsa’s response wasn’t audible, but Valiant suddenly gyrated, the previously immobile starfield spinning violently, coming to rest again. His weight surged again and he grunted under the stress.
“Still tracking!”
“We’re almost to the singularity line.”
“How close?”
“Thirty seconds…twenty-eight…”
“They’ll have their missiles set to cripple us before we can jump.”
“Twenty-two seconds…” Tskombe could hear the tension beneath the calm in Virenze’s words.
“Jump now.” Khalsa’s voice carried sudden decision.
“We’re not far enough…”
“We’ll take the risk. Jump.”
“Hyperdrive now.” Virenze hit a key, and at the same instant something in the blackness flared searing white, and the transpax went opaque. For a long moment nothing else happened, and then a giant’s fist struck Valiant and sent her tumbling. Cabin gravity went from eight or nine gees to none, and Tskombe, not strapped in, slammed hard against the cockpit wall, then again against either the floor or the ceiling, he couldn’t tell which. Alarms blared loudly, and then were abruptly silenced as the lights went out. Dim emergency lights glowed on the control panel as the pilots threw switches, frantically trying to get the situation under control. Their terse chatter was tense, grew tenser as the extent of the damage became clear. Khalsa began to curse as he tried in vain to get system readings. Valiant was dead in space. Tskombe could hear the hiss of escaping air.