by Baen Books
His search yielded only two names. The first was a junior theoretical physicist by the name of Kenji Akikawa. He had gone over the transcripts, but had not flagged any of the passages that Sergei had focused on.
The second name was Captain Costa’s. Although his research overlapped Sergei’s in only one regard, the similarity was significant. The captain had requested frame by frame studies of the interceptor videotape with visual enhancement. He had done so no less than seven times. He, too, had evidently memorized the image until it became a visual worrystone that he could turn over and over in his mind. An insightful mind, evidently. And a restless mind. But also an American mind. A mind that Sergei could not trust.
Sergei rubbed his eyes again, checked his watch: 1820 hours. Time for daily PT.
* * *
A pair of Euros slid past Sergei as he angled off the track of Module Nine’s sparsely populated exercise complex. He had just resolved to ignore a slight clenching pain in his right side when John Costa’s voice inquired. “So, Captain Andreyev, how’s your work coming?”
Sergei blinked, straightened when he saw the American lounging against the entry to the locker rooms. “No conclusive results yet, Captain.” It felt strange to call Costa “Captain”; in the naval-patterned U.S. space forces, it indicated a far more senior command position than in the air-force inspired Russian ranks.
Costa shrugged. “What about guesses, Captain?”
“With all due respect, Captain, I do not `guess.’ I restrict myself to the facts.”
“Glad to hear it, but then why haven’t you confirmed the International Command hypothesis? It’s based on solid facts.”
Sergei met the American’s level gaze. “I may yet conclude that the International Command hypothesis is correct. I am simply being thorough.”
Costa smiled again. “That’s bullshit, Sergei Aleksandrovich.”
Sergei’s felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise slightly. “Do you call me a liar, Captain?”
Costa laughed. “No, I’m not calling you a liar. But it’s clear that you’ve got some reservations about the particle beam theory. I put a watchbot on the evidentiary files that I myself have been examining. You’ve been accessing the same ones. Repeatedly. So it seems that you and I have some unanswered questions in common.”
“I wasn’t aware that my research is subject to investigation, Captain.”
“It isn’t, Mr. Andreyev, but neither is it a private affair. And I exercised command privilege to see if anyone else became interested in some of the anomalies I noticed in the video images of the attacks. Seems like you found the same images to be unsettling.”
Sergei frowned, answered carefully. “I am merely puzzled by some of them and by some aspects of the eyewitness accounts.”
Costa leaned forward. “Which ones?”
Sergei studied Costa’s expression; was there a hint of hopeful expectation there? “The civilian accounts that describe the moment of target destruction are, as you say, ‘unsettling.’ What they saw is not consistent with the current weapon hypothesis.”
“In what way?”
“A particle beam is susceptible to atmospheric diffusion, Captain, even with a laser cutting a thermal path ahead of it. This means that its area of effect tends to widen, not remain focused. In practical terms, a target hit by a particle beam suffers damage in many places at once.
“However, judging from the eyewitness accounts and the videotape, it seems that the Arat Kur weapon has a more focused area of effect. That implies a beam with extraordinary coherence. Not what I would expect from a particle beam weapon shooting down into an atmosphere, sir.”
Costa nodded. “It’s not what I expected to see either. So it’s got to be something else. And I very much want to hear your thoughts on that. But let’s drop the `sir’ and other formalities and then discuss the other possibilities over a drink. Acceptable?”
Sergei opened his mouth; nothing came out. Costa was an ally, maybe a friend—but also an American, and thus, unreliable. Historically and temperamentally unreliable. The contending reflexes peaked, washed each other out. Instinct took over. “Sir, I would like that.”
“Good. And the name is John.” Costa began toward the exit.
“Sir—er, John?”
“Yes?”
“Perhaps we could sample some of the genuine stolichnaya I brought out aboard the Pripyat.”
Costa grinned. “Invitation accepted. Lead on.”
* * *
Once in Sergei’s quarters, Costa showed admirable interest in the vodka, but returned Sergei’s toast of Na zdorovie with a pointed question: “So what other hypothetical weapons have you been considering?”
Sergei ignored the almost ungracious directness and shrugged. “I have many theories, but they all lead to dead ends. A cosmic ray laser is out of the question: the power requirements would be difficult enough to achieve, but how one would go about focusing cosmic rays into a sufficiently coherent beam is beyond imagination.”
“What about gamma ray and X-ray lasers?”
Sergei nodded. “Theoretically possible, but again, the focusing and intensity issues seem to be insurmountable. X-rays and gamma rays can’t be focused by other forces or by optics.”
“We focus them in our X-ray laser drones.”
“Not exactly. We generate a diffuse directional cone, and a very sloppy one, by ‘tamping’ the nuclear warhead that generates the X-rays. It is not a pinpoint destructive effect. Also, since the only way we have of generating those rays in sufficient quantity is by detonating an atomic warhead, it is not a very practical shipboard weapon.” With a wry smile, Sergei motioned for Costa to return the vodka.
John complied. “And you’ve considered other possibilities?”
“Yes, but they are even more far-fetched. Materializing relativistic subatomic particles in the target does not fit what we’re looking for; that would manifest as a small, intensely destructive point-source, not a beam. It cannot be sonics; the weapon works in a vacuum. Gravitics? Perhaps, but I cannot even construct guesses about that. We just do not know enough about how gravity can be manipulated.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“It leaves us with two sensor tasks that must be conducted when the Arat Kur show up. One: we must determine either the wavelength or the frequency of the beam itself. That will allow us to identify the general nature of the weapon. Two: we need to get a good look at the architecture of the Arat Kur vessel. Architecture is purpose-driven, so the energy and focusing requirements of this weapon will certainly affect a ship’s design.”
John nodded. “No way to solve this puzzle without those pieces.”
The word “pieces” sparked a sudden shift of focus within Sergei: he imagined his finger poised upon a solitary rook, locked in a technological chess-game with his faceless Arat Kur opponents. And maybe that’s just what I need, thought Sergei, a game of chess to resharpen my wits, to distract me from the intractable problems of identifying the Arat Kur mystery weapon. He smiled at Costa. “Do you play chess?”
Costa blinked at Sergei’s sudden change of both topic and expression. “A bit. Now and again.”
Sergei heard the sly tone of understatement. His smile became a wide grin. “Indeed?”
“Well . . . look: I’m not ranked, like you are. And yes, your competitive standings were in your dossier. So I’m not likely to be a sucker.”
Sergei rose to get the chessboard. “So much the better, then.”
* * *
The first game went to Sergei within an hour. The second game extended itself over the course of a subsequent evening, but with a similar outcome. In the third game Sergei’s luck ran out; Costa capitalized on a minor flaw in the pawn defense, grabbed the initiative, and eventually the game. The fourth was a hard-fought stalemate, a duel that dragged on for two days as they swapped both pawns and double-duty shifts in the Command Center, where they spent long hours crafting strategies to use against the Arat Kur. M
eanwhile, the station’s technical contingent was working round-the-clock to install a recently-arrived, 20-gigawatt UV laser for station defense: a monster that would have been impossible to power without the extraordinary current of the Jove-Io flux tube.
Exhaustion from the long hours cost Sergei the fifth game, or so he told himself. That comforting rationalization was supported by his victory in the sixth game, dashed by his eventual defeat in the seventh.
On the day that he and Costa started their eighth game, Hephaestus began moving through the more intense regions of the Jovian radiation belts. Rad levels peaked and radio contact disintegrated into random patterns of static and squeals.
As Hephaestus switched all its communications over to tight-beam laser link, Sergei began putting the finishing touches on his own gambit against the Arat Kur: a staggered pawn defense of remote sensors, keyed to concentrate on different spectral bands. Each robot probe was covered by another. Comlinks were rigged to automatically reroute if any of the relay drones were destroyed, all so that they could get one good look at the aliens’ mystery weapon. It was a game that the crew of Hephaestus feared to start, even though they wanted to get it over with.
The Arat Kur did not keep them waiting.
* * *
Seated across from Costa’s empty chair, Sergei frowned at the chess board. The once-orderly lines of white and black pieces were now deeply interpenetrated, a wilderness of overlapping protective webs and half-formed, lurking gambits. Costa had a real talent for chess. With a little more practice, he might even—
The klaxon howled. Sergei rose, feeling the pace of his actions fall far behind his high-speed thoughts: It’s not the right time for a drill. They’re here. Move move move—
By the time the klaxon yowled again—one second later—Sergei was slamming backward into his room’s emergency suit locker, the door barely out of his way. As the bottom half of the suit shot up around him, the intercom began announcing what he already knew; “General quarters, general quarters. This is not a drill. Repeat, not a drill.” He heard the rest of the prerecorded message over his helmet radio, called in his position and status, and detached his suit from its harness.
Out into the corridor. Two pilots, one of them Aivars Meri, darted past, feet thumpthumping into the distance as they disappeared into the adjoining module. More bodies crowded in from both directions, brushed past each other, faces either a blur or anonymous behind helmet visors. Pressing into the turbulent mosaic of flashing limbs and torsos, Sergei started running toward the Command Center in Module One.
As he maneuvered through the bent-elbow joint of the first intermodule coupler, he shot a quick look at the status indicator for the separator charges: a green light glared at him. Sergei picked up his pace, focused on the next module junction.
His suit radio emitted a tonal blip: incoming message on an open channel. “Secure for emergency contra-spin. This is a sixty-second warning.” Then a slight increase in the quality of the channel: a private communique. “Andreyev; report your position.”
“Currently in Module Five. Am moving toward Four.”
“Negative. Report to Auxiliary Command, Module Fifteen.” The circuit closed. Sergei completed his next loping step on his toe, turned, and began sprinting back the way he had come. Auxiliary Command? Why there?
The corridors were now barren as Sergei passed his own compartment. Brief snippets of conversation heard over the suit radio told a fragmentary tale: pilots were firing up the interceptors, their gunner/sensor-op partners racing through preflight diagnostic checks. The external berthing harnesses were opening, mooring clamps retracting, freeing spindly, wingless warbirds. At the bottom of each fighter’s thrust bells, shimmering white cones of heavy plasma bloomed, sudden and silent in the vacuum.
Sergei stole a quick glance at the chrono on his visor’s heads-up display: thirty seconds to contra-spin. He kept checking the status lights of each module’s separation system: green, green—
Red. Shit. “Andreyev here. I have a separator charge failure at intermodule coupler 13-14.”
A pause; then, “Acknowledged. Proceed to Auxiliary Command.”
“But—”
“We’ll take care of it. Proceed to Auxiliary Command as instructed.”
“Acknowledged.” What the hell was so important about getting to Auxiliary Command?
No time to ask the question a second time: only ten seconds to emergency contra-spin, which was never a pleasant experience. It was the spaceside equivalent of “hitting the brakes,” as the Americans liked to say. From a tactical point of view, the station’s own kinetic energy was more of a threat than any enemy weapon; Hephaestus was a three-hundred-fifty thousand tonne armored wheel with a diameter of just over three hundred meters, spinning at a rate of two point one rpm—giving it a rim velocity of about one hundred twenty kph. Any significant hits would introduce new vectors to the rotation, diverting the inertia of the spin into a myriad of conflicting directions. The cumulative stresses would surely tear the station, and most of its crew, to pieces.
One last stride brought him into Module Fifteen; Auxiliary Command. Costa and Akikawa were there, strapped in and helmets hinged open. As Sergei entered, Akikawa undid his straps and headed back into Module Fourteen.
At least, that was what was supposed to happen. Instead, just as Sergei dropped into the acceleration couch Akikawa had vacated, the floor seemed to slide forward: the contraspin had started. Rotational speed was dropping. Fast.
Akikawa stumbled into the intermodule-coupler, stifled an annoyed curse. Sergei sympathized; moving during an emergency contraspin was a treacherous undertaking. The sensation was reminiscent of walking up the aisle of a braking maglev: the world came to a smooth, swift halt, but your body insisted on retaining its forward momentum, usually in a most ungraceful manner.
Costa pointed to the holotank, where Jupiter rotated slowly. Near its north pole, blue-white motes hovered: the human interceptors. Some were moving “upward” to meet a spearhead of red motes that was plunging downward toward the pole: the Arat Kur.
“They came in well above the ecliptic.” Costa’s tone was sharp, precise: very unlike his off-duty voice. “Active sensors indicate one large vessel, maybe a dozen smaller ones. A heavy, its interceptors, and probably some ROVs in the mix.”
“Any sign of other craft?”
Costa shook his head, snagged the compupad stylus that had begun to float away from him; contraspin was finished. “No. But the Arat Kur could easily have more ships out there. This bunch must have popped out of shift pretty far away from us, at least fifty light-minutes out. Otherwise, the gravitic distortions and neutrino emissions would have been dense enough for us to detect against the background.” Akikawa had silently picked himself up off the floor and was now headed back the way Sergei had come—though God only knew why.
“The Arat Kur are playing a very conservative game, John.”
Costa nodded, narrowed eyes reflecting the red motes. “They sure are. But they’re not wasting any time. They’re counteraccelerating at one point five gee constant and still going like bats out of hell. Our craft will intercept in four minutes.”
“Odds?”
“Not good. Our birds were only scrambled three minutes ago. Plus four more minutes to intercept, that gives them a total of seven minutes of boost at two point five gees. Relatively speaking, they’ll be sitting still when the hammer comes down. But Harrison’s good, and so is Korsov. They’re using most of their thrust for evasive maneuvers.”
Sergei glanced over at the remote sensor readouts; nothing yet. Not surprising: he had deployed almost all of his sensors within sixty thousand kilometers of the station. A voice on the intercom anticipated and answered Sergei’s next question: “Fourteen bogeys confirmed inbound. ETA defensive perimeter: three minutes forty seconds. ETA Hephaestus: four minutes fifteen seconds.”
Costa grinned; there was no humor in it. “I hope you work fast, Sergei Aleksandrovich. We’re not g
oing to have a lot of time between the start of the party and the finish.”
Sergei nodded, fastened the rest of his straps and checked his tether. “Captain, where did Akikawa go?”
“Intermodule coupler 13-14. He’s taking care of that module separator system failure you found on the way here.”
“But I could have—”
“It was imperative that you—you, specifically—got here, and with all possible speed.”
“And exactly what am I—are we—doing in Auxiliary control, sir?”
Costa smiled. “Being where we’re not expected to be.”
Sergei nodded; that made sense. The Arat Kur certainly knew about Hephaestus station, had probably managed to get design specs from the same suborned humans who had evidently furnished them with intelligence on the defenses at Barnard’s Star. So they were sure to target the metaphorical brain of Hephaestus, its Command Center.
Targeting data started streaming in from the interceptors. Costa opened a link to their commo net. Underneath the cool efficiency of the Russians and the truculent banter of the Americans was a thread of fear. Or perhaps it was just the result of the thoracic compression caused by two point five gees constant thrust. Harrison growled a warning about unnecessary chatter; the Americans became quiet, coldly precise. Korsov started counting down the narrowing range, voice devoid of emotion.
Sergei considered the enemy’s rapid approach. “At their speed, the Arat Kur won’t be able to engage for very long. It will take them hours to retroboost and return. Perhaps this is a feint?”