The Gordian Protocol

by David Weber

  “I concur with that assessment,” Vassal stated. “It is highly likely we would have been contacted by now if Pathfinder-12 were still functional.”

  “But what about the damage the TTV suffered in 2018?” Jonas sent from Pathfinder-6.

  “Yes, the TTV was hit by Pathfinder-12’s missiles,” Vassal acknowledged. “However, I have taken into account the TTV’s actions in the thirtieth century as well as the apparent lack of damage in 2018. This gives me a minimum baseline for system performance and self-repair abilities. I have also factored in the prohibited technologies at its disposal, which allow it to self-modify and increase its overall lethality.”

  “We’re still underestimating him.” Shigeki shook his head.

  This was his fault. He’d thought a lone chronoport could take down the TTV, and now he’d lost not only a ship, but also a member of his team, not just an assistant but a companion who’d worked by his side for decades to help him to build the DTI into what it was today. She was dead because he kept underestimating Kaminski, and all he could do now was not repeat the mistake.

  “There is a small probability that both craft were destroyed in whatever subsequent conflict took place,” Vassal added.

  “I’m not about to bet the future of our entire reality on wishful thinking,” Shigeki growled.

  “Do we have any idea why Kaminski was in 2018?” Kloss sent from Pathfinder-2. “We thought he was targeting 1905 to 1995.”

  “But he doesn’t know where to start,” Shigeki pointed out. “The people he picked up must be a part of this. Vassal, analyze the historical records in your possession. Search for known family members, workplace colleagues, anything of that sort. Look for significant interactions with historical events, either directly or by people they would know.”

  “Yes, Director. I already performed this analysis in anticipation of your question and have identified one significant match.”

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “The man is Doctor Benjamin Schröder, chairman of the history department at Castle Rock University in 2018.”

  “Then that explains Kaminski’s interest,” Jonas sent. “What about the woman?”

  “I have identified her as Elzbietá Abramowski. However, I do not believe she is a person of significance. Judging from Professor Kaminski’s actions in the restaurant, her acquisition was not a priority. I believe circumstances forced him to save her because of her romantic involvement with Doctor Schröder.”

  “I see.” Shigeki nodded at this. “He protected her in order to ensure the historian’s cooperation.”

  “That is the most likely explanation,” Vassal concurred.

  “Makes sense,” Jonas sent. “This version of the timeline is alien to him, and he’s trying to learn more about it.”

  “Partially,” Vassal stated. “I believe there is more to Doctor Schröder’s selection than his historical expertise.”

  “What else do you have?” Shigeki asked.

  “Doctor Schröder is the grandson of Graf Klaus-Wilhelm von Schröder, a prominent military and political figure from the twentieth century who served in both World War II and the Great Eastern War, and subsequently served as the provisional governor of Ukraine until its induction into the United Nations.”

  “So not only is the guy a historian,” Jonas sent, “but he’s also related to a major player in this part of the timeline? That can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Sounds like a solid lead to me, Boss,” Kloss sent.

  “Agreed.” Shigeki could hardly contain his elation. Yes, Katja might be dead, but finally they had something that shed light on the professor’s intentions.

  “So what do we do about it, boss?” Kloss sent.

  “We tighten the noose, that’s what. Vassal, let’s assume the Graf is important to the Event. Within what range of years does he have the strongest impact on the course of history?”

  “I believe 1926 to 1958 is the best period upon which to focus our attention. The beginning of his military service to the end of his governorship.”

  “Then let’s shift the picket to cover that period and a little more.” Shigeki pulled up a linear representation of the timeline. “Say, 1920 to 1960. We can cover the entire range with two chronoports staged at each ten-year increment. Also, since the TTV is probably downstream from us right now, we’ll send Pathfinder-10 back to 2018, both to act as a forward scout and to stand watch in case the professor returns there.”

  “Good thinking, boss,” Kloss sent. “We cut his last visit short with a missile barrage, so he might have unfinished business in that year or one nearby.”

  “We can shift the existing picket assignments over easily enough,” Durantt noted.

  “Why not deploy single chronoports in five-year increments?” Jonas sent. “We’ll have a better chance of detecting the TTV that way.”

  “Because of what almost certainly happened to Hinnerkopf,” Shigeki stated firmly. “I don’t want to lose anyone else, you hear me? We double up and hit the TTV hard wherever it shows itself. No chronoport is to engage the TTV on its own unless it has no other choice. If Pathfinder-10 spots something, it comes back for help. Understood?”

  “Perfectly clear, boss,” Kloss sent.

  “Yeah, understood,” Jonas sent.

  Captains from the other chronoports called in and acknowledged his instructions.

  “Good,” Shigeki stated. “All chronoports will pair up and reform the picket. We’ll resume telegraph silence once everyone is in position. Captains, you have your orders. Make it happen.”

  *

  “Oh, would you just look at this thing!” Raibert gazed up from the cargo bay floor to behold their newly acquired Freep “Thunderbolt 5” anticapital mass driver. “Beautiful! Just beautiful!”

  “Do you and the big gun need some time alone?” Elzbietá asked.

  “Nah, I’m fine.” Raibert planted his fists triumphantly on his hips. “Just enjoying the view.”

  The mass driver rested in a microbot-erected scaffold, and the full length of the 375mm weapon extended from the back wall all the way out the front of the Kleio. Ammunition handlers, quick-discharge capacitors, heat sinks, alignment gimbals, shock absorbers, and other support systems branched out around the gun and filled the middle story of the bay’s three-story height. Superconductor lines, data cables, and high-pressure coolant pipes drooped off the device and followed a tightly packed utility trench that lead out the back wall to the ship’s rear.

  “It definitely looks impressive,” Elzbietá teased. “But looks can be deceiving.”

  “Not in this case,” Raibert assured. “Right, Kleio? How are we doing?”

  “The mass driver is fully integrated with my systems. I have completed all requested diagnostics and can find no fault in the weapon’s operation. It is ready to use on demand.”

  “Stellar work.”

  “I aim to please, Professor.”

  “What sort of performance can we expect out of it?” Elzbietá asked.

  “Kleio?”

  “Each shot accelerates a one-ton projectile to a velocity of four kilometers per second. Upon impact, a stationary target will suffer sixteen million kilojoules of focused kinetic energy. The payload will then detonate, adding another seven million kilojoules as an area effect that scatters two hundred kilograms of weaponized microbots in the process.”

  Elzbietá whistled. “Damn!”

  “I know, right?”

  “Alternatively, the payload can also be detonated early to produce a shotgun effect that improves to-hit probabilities for distant or fast moving targets at the expense of raw destructive force. The self-replicators are currently set to expire after ten generations, though that number can be adjusted if you feel a larger or smaller area of effect is desirable.”

  “What’s the rate of fire?” she asked.

  “One point two shots per minute,” Kleio reported. “The weapon’s capacitors take fifty seconds to charge after firing.”

 
; “Any way to improve that?”

  “Let’s avoid anything that might cause complications,” Raibert warned. “Yes, we could probably improve the rate of fire because of how much better our tech is, but we might also muck something up in the process. This thing comes from a foreign tech base, so I don’t want to risk it.”

  “I see your point,” Elzbietá admitted. “How many rounds do we have?”

  “Fifty-six,” Philosophus replied. “All they had left in the gunboat magazine.”

  “Good!” Raibert nodded sharply. “Too bad the built-in restrictions against weaponized self-replicators won’t let Kleio make more of ’em. On the other hand, if we need more than fifty-six rounds for this baby, we’re too screwed to worry about it. We’ll focus our remaining efforts on the Gatling guns as secondary weapons, instead. And speaking of which”—he rubbed his hands together—“how are my other lovelies coming along?”

  “I have finished installing the second 45mm defensive Gatling gun,” Kleio said. “The third should be completed tomorrow and fully installed the following day.”

  “Nice! So, am I getting a fourth?”

  “I am afraid that three is the limit I can recommend mounting,” Kleio replied. “I have replaced the destroyed 12mm Gatling in its original module, but producing additional larger weapons would cut dangerously into my printers’ bulk reserves in several categories. To date, we have been engaged only by single Admin vessels. My projections suggest that we are increasingly likely to be engaged against multiple adversaries simultaneously, however, and our experience of their weapons suggests, in turn, that we are likely to sustain significant damage if we are. I cannot produce still more weapons—and the ammunition for them—without depleting my bulk reserves to a level which is likely to preclude my ability to repair combat damage as it occurs. If you wish me to produce additional Gatlings, I believe it will be necessary for me to begin cannibalizing internal systems to provide the needed materials, instead. Shall I proceed?”

  “Well, damn.” Raibert visibly deflated. “No, Kleio. No, you’re right about how bad we’re likely to get hurt, and the last thing we need is to compromise your damage control ability. I guess this is as deadly as we can make you. I hope it’s enough.”

  “As do I, Professor.”

  “What about the power drain of all this hardware?” Elzbietá indicated the utility trench. “Is using the mass driver in combat going to affect the ship’s performance?”

  “Umm…” Raibert blinked. “I don’t…think so?”

  “Didn’t consider that, did you?”

  “My dear.” He put a hand to his chest. “Historian, remember? Not an engineer.”

  “Kleio, how about it?” she asked. “Is the power drain going to be a problem for you?”

  “I do not anticipate any issues. My hot singularity reactor has sufficient spare capacity, so it should be possible to fire the mass driver, Gatling guns, and run all other systems simultaneously without complications.”

  “Well, then,” Raibert smiled, “that answers that. Good to know, either way.”

  “Combat isn’t all about firepower. You need to make sure you don’t compromise our maneuverability. Hitting hard is fine, but never getting hit in return is better.”

  “Your expertise on the matter is duly noted.”

  “So what’s a hot singularity reactor?”

  Raibert raised an eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Philo, you want to take this one?”

  “Sure.” The Viking materialized in their shared vision. “It’s basically a collector for black hole radiation.”

  “The time machine’s powered by a black hole?” Elzbietá exclaimed with wide-eyed wonder. “Wicked!”

  “A tiny artificial one,” Philo emphasized. “Only a thousand tons. The mass is important because a black hole’s rate of evaporation is inversely proportional to its mass.”

  “Is it safe going into combat with something like that in the ship?”

  “The reactor’s already been cracked open once,” Raibert commented, then shrugged. “So yeah. Seems safe.”

  “But couldn’t it suck all of us inside if the reactor was blown open?”

  “That’s not possible,” Philo assured her. “First, the singularity is surrounded by a shell of exotic matter. This shell regulates the rate of evaporation and also shields us from harm, even if the ship loses all power. We actually dump our excess thermal energy into it. It’s quite sturdy, as the previous attack demonstrated. Second, even in the case of the reactor’s catastrophic failure, the negative mass in the shell is designed to cancel out the black hole, preventing an explosive release of energy. Third, even though it is a black hole, its mass is still only a thousand tons. Gravitational pull is basically nonexistent.”

  “Ah. I see. So it won’t suck us in.”

  “Nope. No sucking.”

  “Good thing Doc isn’t here,” Raibert chuckled. “I bet this conversation would have burst one of his blood vessels. Where is he now, anyway?”

  “In his quarters,” Philo stated. “Studying the Event.”

  “He making any progress?”

  “I’m not sure. He seemed a bit…frustrated the last time I checked in on him.”

  “Best to leave him alone and let him concentrate,” Elzbietá said.

  “You heard the lady.” Raibert paced over to the counter-grav tube. “The three of us will take care of the ship, and then Doc will tell us how we fix this busted timeline.”

  “Professor?” Kleio asked.

  “Fine. Four of us. Whatever.” He took the tube up and vanished from sight.

  “You know.” Elzbietá turned to Philo. “I think that’s the happiest I’ve seen him.”

  “I’m not surprised now that we finally have an option for dealing with the Admin other than running away. You weren’t there when they ripped out his mind and threw his body down a recycling chute.”

  “Yeah. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”

  “I think he’s looking forward to finally taking the fight to them. Plus putting you in control of the Kleio was an unexpected bonus. You made taking down that chronoport look easy.”

  “You weren’t too bad out there, yourself.” She nudged the avatar in the arm. His virtual body shifted slightly, and she felt the sensation of chain mail against her elbow.

  “I mostly focused on making sure we didn’t die,” Philo chuckled. “By the way, Raibert and I set up your pilot profile today, so the two of us can authorize time travel now instead of just Raibert and me.”

  “I think we made a good team back there. We should keep it up. Me at the flight controls. You on the guns.”

  “You think so?” He stroked his beard thoughtfully.

  “Yeah, I do. What do you say?”

  “Well, sure! I’m more than happy to help you out when you’re flying the ship.”

  “Also, is there anything we can do about those controls?”

  Philo scrunched his brow. “What wrong with them?”

  “They clearly weren’t designed by a fighter pilot. There wasn’t any feedback through them, so I had no idea when I was reaching output limits, and it took way too many complicated hand motions to do what should be simple course changes.” She snapped her fingers. “Say, if I told you what to build, do you think you could set up the controls to match what I’m used to in my F-21?”

  “Build?” He let out a long raspberry. “As in something physical? I can do way better than that!”

  *

  Elzbietá opened her eyes within the abstraction and turned on her heels. She stood on an endless stretch of clouded glass with a cobalt sky hanging overhead. Shooting stars streaked past the horizon, and she walked over to a sturdy chair, the only object in sight. She noted the throttle floating over the left armrest and the joystick floating over the right.

  “I thought this might be something closer to what you’re used to.”

  She looked over her
shoulder to find Philo standing behind her.

  “Definitely.” She sank into the seat and took hold of both controls. Virtual displays sprang to life around her, and the clouded glass vanished for a clear view in every direction.

  “Some of the literature we picked up in the twenty-first century had pictures of cockpits, so I started from those.” Philo walked across nothing and knelt by her side. “Is this a little more to your liking?”

  “We’ll have to make some adjustment for the omnidirectional thrusters, but this is a great start.” She wiggled her fingers around the controls and settled the tips over familiar tactile buttons. “Can I give it a try?”

  “Sure. This isn’t patched into the Kleio yet, so we’re in a pure simulation. Do whatever you want.”

  Elzbietá reached out to adjust a virtual display Philo’s head was blocking when her fingernails scraped across his helmet.

  “I can touch you!” she marveled, then rested a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Really touch you. It’s not a simulated sensation without weight.”

  “We’re both abstract right now, so I’m as real as you are here.”

  “And my body is still on the bridge? In the compensation bunk, right?”

  “Exactly. Same as the first time.” He rested a large, calloused hand atop hers. “Back then, I brought you into an abstract copy of the bridge, but I can bring you into any environment you want, equipped with any sort of interface you desire.”

  “This is really something!” She grinned as she looked around, then stopped and said, “Hang on.”

  “What?”

  Something tickled her nose, and she sniffed.

  “What’s that smell?” she asked. “Smells like a combination of sweat and horse.”

  She brought up the hand she’d touched Philo with and inhaled deeply.

  “Sorry,” Philo said. “I’ll turn off that part of my avatar.”

  The odor vanished.

  “Where are you going to sit?” she asked.

  “Wherever you want me to. Tandem, side by side, or even outside this VR. We can set it up however you want.”

  “If we’re working together, I think it’ll help if I can see you. Set yourself up to my left.”