A Talent for War (38 page)

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"Primitive stuff," said Chase, standing near the helmsman's position. Her voice bounced off the walls. I walked over and stood behind the command chair, the seat from which Sim had directed engagements that had become legendary.

Chase thoughtfully inspected the consoles, and the brightened when she found what she wanted.

"One gee coming, Alex." She tapped in a sequence, and frowned when there was no response.

She tried again: this time something in the walls whined, sputtered, and took hold. I felt blood, organs, hair, everything settle toward the deck. "I've turned the heat up too," she announced.

"Chase," I said, "I think it's time to hear what Captain Sim has to say for himself."

She nodded vigorously. "Yes. By all means, let's find out what happened." She experimented with one of the control boards. The lights dipped, the ship's monitors glowed, and external views of the vessel appeared. One tracked to the Centaur, and stayed with it: another showed us the capsule which had brought us over. "Battle control, probably," she said. "Don't touch anything.

I'm not sure about the condition of the weapons, but everything looks operational. It might not take much to vaporize our ride home."

I put my hands in my pockets.

I tried to visualize the bridge as I'd seen it on the Stein: quiet, efficient, illumination spotted only where it was needed. But things had been happening too quickly for me to observe procedures. I had no idea who did what. "Can you bring up the log?" I asked.

"I'm still looking for it. I don't know any of these symbols. Bear with me." The ship's general communication system snapped on, snapped off.

"They might have taken it," I said, thinking of a Tenandrome boarding party.

"Computer says it's all here. Just a matter of finding it."

While she looked, I diverted myself with an examination of a command center designed by a people who clearly possessed a deep and abiding love for the arc, the loop, and the parabola.

The geometry was of the same order as the exterior of the ship: one would have been hard-pressed to find a straight line anywhere. It was also clear that the Dellacondans had never worshipped the utilitarian gods who dominate our own time. The interior of the ship possessed a richness and

luxuriance that suggested an inclination to go to war in style. It seemed an odd affectation for a people traditionally thought of as having their roots in tough frontier mountain country.

"Okay, Alex, I've got it. These are final entries." She paused momentarily to heighten the tension, or perhaps to allow me to entertain second thoughts. "The next voice you hear—"

—Was certainly not that of Christopher Sim. Zero six fourteen twenty-two, it said. Abonai Four. Repair categories one and two completed this date. Repair category three as shown on inventory. Weapons systems fully restored. Corsarius returned to service this date. Devereaux, Technical Support.

"That's probably the chief of a maintenance crew," I said.

"If they're returning command of the ship to its captain, there should be more."

There was. Christopher Sim had delivered few speeches, had never spoken to parliaments, and had not lived long enough to make a farewell address. Unlike Tarien's, his voice had never become familiar to the schoolchildren of the Confederacy. Nevertheless, I knew it at once. And I was impressed at how cleverly it had been reproduced by actors.

Zero six fourteen thirty-seven, it said in a rich baritone. Corsarius received per work order two two three kappa. Note that forward transformers check out at nine six point three seven, which is not an acceptable level for combat. Command understands that the port facility is under pressure just now. Nevertheless, if Maintenance is unable to effect repairs, they should at least be aware of the deficiency. Corsarius is hereby returned to port. Christopher Sim, Commanding.

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Another round of entries announced restoration of transformer power, and Sim's crisp voice accepted without comment. But even over the space of two centuries, one could read the satisfaction in his tone. He loved having the last word, I thought, amused.

"This would be the completion of repairs at Abonai," I said. "Just shortly before the crew mutinied."

"Yes. The dates check."

"My God," I said. "The mutiny, the Seven, we've got everything. Run the rest of it!"

She turned slowly toward me, with a pale smile. "That's the last entry," she said. "There is nothing after it." Her voice was hollow, and beads of sweat had appeared on her upper lip, despite the fact that the air was still cool.

"Then the Tenandrome people did take it!" I said, a little too loudly.

"This is a ship's log, Alex. It can't be erased, can't be doctored, can't be removed, can't be changed in any way without leaving a trail. The computer says it's intact." She bent over it, stabbed at the keyboard, looked at the results, and shrugged. "It's all here."

"But Corsarius went into battle shortly after that! There must have been log entries! Right?"

"Yes," she said. "I can't imagine a naval service trying to function with arbitrary log-keeping.

For whatever reason, Christopher Sim took a volunteer crew into the climactic battle of his life, and neglected to enter any of it into his log."

"Maybe he was too busy," I suggested.

"Alex," she said, "it could not have happened."

She settled herself with some diffidence into the captain's chair, and punched fresh instructions into the computer. "Let's see what we get if we back up."

Christopher Sim's voice returned. —I have no doubt that the destruction of the two battle cruisers will focus enemy attention on the small naval bases at Dimonides II, and at Chippewa. It can hardly do otherwise. Those sites will be perceived by the enemy as a bone in their throat, and will be attacked as soon as they can concentrate sufficient power. The Ashiyyur will probably divert their main battle group to the task—

"I think this is early in the war," I said.

"Yes. It's good to know at least that he uses his log."

We listened while Sim described the composition and strength of the force he expected, and launched into a detailed description of enemy psychology, and their probable attack strategy. I was impressed that he seemed to have got most of it right. Chase listened a while. Then she got up, and announced that she wanted to explore the rest of the ship. "Want to come along?"

"I'll stay here," I said. "I'd like to hear more of it."

Maybe that was a mistake.

After she left, I sat in the half-light listening to projections of energy requirements and commentary on enemy technology and occasional crisp battle reports, describing Sim's hit-and-run tactics against the big enemy fleets.

No wonder Gabe had been excited! I wondered whether he had known precisely what he was stalking.

Gradually, I was drawn into the drama of that long-ago struggle, and I saw the monster Ashiyyur formations through the eyes of a commander who consistently succeeded in scattering, or at least diverting, them with a handful of light warships. I began to understand the importance of his intelligence-gathering capabilities, the listening stations along enemy lines, fleet movement analysis, even his awareness of the psychology of individual enemy commanders. It appeared they could not void themselves without Sim's knowledge.

The individual accounts were riveting.

Off Sanusar, the Dellacondans, assisted by a few allied vessels, ambushed and destroyed two heavy cruisers at the cost of a single frigate. I listened to Sim reporting his coup in the Spinners.

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There were other actions, many of which I had never heard. But always, despite the long line of victories, the result was the same: withdraw, count losses, regroup. The Dellacondans could never stand and fight: time and again, Sim was forced to pull back because he lacked the sheer force to exploit victory.

And then came Ilyanda.

We think we can beat them here, he announces cryptically. If not here, then I fear it will be nowhere. In that moment, I understood that Kindrel Lee's story was true.

He names, but does not describe, the instrument of execution.

Helios.

The sun weapon.

He pauses, almost uncertain. As surely as I sit in this chair, history will judge harshly what I am about to do. But, God help me, I can see no other course.

At Ilyanda, the evacuation goes slower than anticipated. Some people are resisting, demanding their right to stay behind. I cannot permit it and, where necessary, we are resorting to force. And later: It's unlikely that we will succeed in getting everyone off. We will do what we can. But whatever our circumstances when the mutes arrive, we will detonate on schedule!

Tension mounts, and units of the Ashiyyurean armada appear among the outer worlds. We must have everything away from here and all unusual movement stopped before they get within scanner range. There's talk of sacrificing some frigates to delay matters, but Sim concludes that he cannot allow the Ashiyyur to guess that their presence has been detected. Meantime, some of the hoped-for transports have not arrived. The Dellacondans respond by padding the freight compartments of the shuttles (which are, of course, capable only of interplanetary travel) with blankets and mounds of clothing. Then they load the final evacuees, and clear out.

With luck they won't be seen. They'll get hungry, and a few of them may get blistered. But they have a chance.

With five hours remaining to his escape deadline, Sim withdraws the operations teams that have been coordinating the evacuation and salvaging as much of the art and literature of Ilyanda as possible. Tarien says no price is too high to stop the mutes. I suppose he is right.

At the last minute, more people are found at Point Edward. They are hustled up on the remaining two shuttles. Sim's small fighting force has been leaving in single units, in an effort to create the smallest possible scan target. Finally, only Corsarius remains. Most of the late arrivals are packed on board, and they are quickly underway.

I hurried through the next few entries. Corsarius withdraws to a distance of about a half parsec, where they pause to watch. The Ashiyyurean fleet closes in, transmits warnings to the Dellacondans, and offers Sim a chance to surrender.

Sim captures the recording for his log: Resistance is useless, the voice of the enemy says. It is mechanical, matter-of-fact, eminently reasonable. There is no hint of exultation. Save the lives of your crews.

I looked around the bridge. Hard to realize it had all happened here. Outside, the planetary rim, hazy in bright sunlight, was coming into view. Where would Talino have been while they waited?

The station has opened fire on the enemy ships with its meagre batteries. The weapons are taken out quickly, and Sim reports that several destroyers have accomplished a forced docking.

Now, he adds. And there is an unspoken question in his tone.

Now.

It is a bad moment, and I can read his anguish.

And I thought: Matt Olander is sitting in a bar at the spaceport. He has taken the trigger off automatic, and his attention has been distracted.

The Corsarius debarked its passengers on Millennium four days later. I checked the tables. A modern liner, traveling between Ilyanda and Millennium, would spend about eight and a half
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standard days in Armstrong space alone. How had he done it?

There was something else, another log entry following a series of maintenance reports: We have to find out what happened. The thing might still go off. It has to be disarmed and made safe.

After that, the record garbles. I was trying to read it when Chase came back. "There are no remains anywhere," she said.

I told her what I'd found. She listened, made an effort of her own to clear the transmission, and shook her head. "It's a security code of some sort. He didn't want just anybody to read it."

"The phrasing bothers me," I said. " 'Disarmed and made safe.' It's a redundancy. Sim is usually very precise. What does one do after disarming a sun weapon to make it safe?"

We looked at one another, and I think it struck us both at the same instant. "He's talking about security," Chase said. "No one is to know they have the weapon."

"Which means they have to explain the evacuation." I sat down in Sim's command chair. It was a bit tight for me.

"Wasn't it fortunate," she said quietly, "that the mutes acted so untypically at Point Edward. It saved Sim from having to answer so many questions."

She looked at me a long time. And I understood, finally, why there had been an attack against the empty city. And who had conducted it.

I found more log entries further on. Sim and the Corsarius were plunged again into engagements in a dozen different places across the Frontier. But he had changed now, and I began to read, first in his tone, and then in his comments, a despair that grew in proportion with each success, and each subsequent retreat. And I heard his reactions to the defeat at Grand Salinas, and the loss, one by one, of the allied worlds. It must have seemed as though there was no end to the black ships. And eventually, there came the news that Dellaconda, too, had fallen.

He responded only by breathing Maurina's name.

Through all this, there was no further mention of the sun weapon.

He railed against the short-sightedness of Rimway, of Toxicon, of Earth, who thought themselves safe by distance, who feared to rouse to wrath of the conquering horde, who perceived each other with deeper-rooted jealousies and suspicions than those with which they regarded the invader. And when he paid for his victory at Chapparal with the loss of five frigates and a light cruiser manned by volunteers from Toxicon, he commented that We are losing our finest and bravest. And to what point? The remark was followed by a long silence, and then he said the unthinkable!: If they will not come, then it is time to make our own peace!

His mood grew darker as the long retreat continued. And when two more ships from his diminished squadron were lost at Como Des, his anger flared: There will be a Confederacy one day, he says wearily, but they mil not construct it on the bodies of my men! It is the same voice that indicted the Spartans.