Edward M. Lerner (35 page)

“Why have you called?” Behind the avatar spread a sea of stars.

“To arrange your surrender, Foremost,” Art replied.

Blink blink: a sneer. “I think not.”

“You may feel somewhat differently when the fusion drive stops.” The deck trembled beneath Art’s feet.

Mashkith felt it, too. “What are you doing?”

“Me? Nothing.” As Art spoke, several decks flexed, separated, and retracted. Pumps moved fluids between tanks. “The shipboard AI, or what you left of him, now
he
is quite busy.”

Just once, while Allyson was still a baby, Maya had talked Art into attending the ballet. The spin up/down process K’choi Gwu ka and T’bck Ra had described in typical literal Centaur fashion struck Art as the very embodiment of choreography. The split-second timing, the careful matching of counterbalanced masses, the precise movements along graceful arcs—make one mistake, and the results could be far more consequential than dancers colliding.

“For the longest time, Mashkith, you know what I could not understand? The holes in the ceilings and walls. I hate not getting something.”

“Mounting points for the herd’s swinging racks. They were removed in any part of the ship humans might see. Why do you change the subject?”

For his cyber-conferencing backdrop, Art had chosen an outside image of the starship, its attitude jets fired more and more often, the duration of the burns growing. Did Mashkith yet suspect he was being given a visualization of real-time events? “Ceiling-mounted swinging racks. What finally penetrated my consciousness only a little while ago was the holes in the
walls
. In spin mode, ceilings become walls and some walls become ceilings.”

Blink blink. “I am aware of the operation of my ship.”

We’ll see whose ship it is, Foremost. “I was enjoying a lovely park on deck sixty-seven when I realized: This landscape would tear apart were the ship to spin up. I couldn’t reconcile that with my experience on earlier visits, when the whole ship was spinning.” Another tremor came as Art spoke. “The ka was kind enough to explain the various mechanisms involved in reconfiguration between acceleration and spin modes.”

“Doctor Walsh, if you have a point, please get to it. I have pressing duties.”

The simulated
Harmony
now fired its attitude jets almost continuously. If you looked closely, the hull had begun precessing like a top around its main axis. “Yes, preparing to surrender. Do you feel it yet?”

The avatar briefly froze—Mashkith’s thoughts had gone elsewhere. Did he get it? Moving selected deck segments in an unbalanced way created a wobble, the carefully timed actions pumping a resonant motion. “You are shaking
Victorious
. Why?”

Plan D. “Very soon that wobble, which Centaur automation still controls, will increase beyond the ability of the attitude jets, which you control, to compensate for. When that happens,
Harmony
will tumble uncontrollably. Or it would—except that accelerometers integral to the fusion drive will sense the problem and shut it down. Then we’ll stop rocking the boat. Restart the drive, and we’ll shut it down again.”

Mashkith’s avatar’s stare was no less fierce for being computer-generated. “Drifting endlessly through space … are there not simpler and faster ways to commit suicide?”

Plan D. As soon as we can radio back to Sol system to confirm our ability to maintain the shutdown, the UP rescue fleet will launch. “Trust me, Foremost. Suicide is the furthest thing from my plans.”

Had the Foremost become too old and timorous?

Far away, Mashkith had acted boldly. His actions had saved the clan, saved all their lives, for which Lothwer would always be grateful. Still….

They were touring a barracks hastily constructed for displaced Hunters. Was that their best use of time now? Somehow, Lothwer doubted it. “Urgent need for action, sir.”

“Drifting not to your satisfaction?” The Foremost’s head traced an ironic circle as they floated down a narrow aisle between tiers of hammocks.

“Recommendation: immediate and full assault. Enemy overconfident in his tactical success.” In Lothwer’s more detailed conception, netted for security, the battle would be glorious. He would coordinate large-scale attacks from bow and stern, recapture the ship, and enforce cooperation among the surviving prisoners. Arblen Ems would return in triumph—and with overwhelming technological superiority—to hegemony over K’vith.

“Well and bravely fought.” Mashkith’s attention had wandered to a clan veteran, wounded in the recent fighting, patched, and discharged to make room in the hospital. “The clan’s thanks to you for your sacrifice.”

“Foremost,” Lothwer interrupted. “My proposal?”

“Our other options?”

It was hard not to blink-blink in contempt. Once, such questions might have had value as training. Did Mashkith still think of him as some junior cadet, to be reminded of basic analysis? Any such need for guidance had ended long ago. Now the questioning only disguised timidity. “Our submission here, to the raiders. Our submission later, to a UP fleet of conquest.”

More greetings and commiseration. Finally they reached the end of the barracks and the Foremost remembered Lothwer’s presence. “Drifting the wrong perception.” A major mechanical repair, something rebuilt following a human grenade attack, diverted Mashkith’s attention yet again. “Coasting.” The tactical plan that had remained in their consensual virtual space abruptly vanished. A simple navigational animation took its place. The icon for
Victorious
pulsed on the fringes of the solar system, far above the ecliptic, on a far-red thread that tracked their course since Jupiter. A near-red dotted extrapolation continued into the void. “Velocity at time of fusion-drive cut-off two percent light speed. Without any further acceleration,
Victorious
soon beyond human reach. Vital matters: Location of human navy? Reason for its absence?”

Lothwer seethed as they next toured an improvised kitchen that replaced one abandoned amidships.
He
had stolen away the human experts.
He
had blunted the fiercest human attack shipboard. Why did Mashkith patronize him?

A drifting—my humble correction, Foremost, a
coasting
—starship might be a derelict, its human and herd and Hunter passengers all dead, its interstellar drive destroyed in battle or spite. Clearly, the human fleet awaited a signal before giving chase. Lothwer thought the more interesting question was: Why had the raiders destroyed most of the antennae? With whom did the humans think to prevent Arblen Ems from communicating? The few antennae still intact, none with interstellar range, were unreachable from the decks the humans controlled—but they could still provide the pretext he sought. “Reason for our immediate assault, Foremost: denial of human access to signaling equipment.”

Mashkith sampled the upcoming meal, limiting his grimace to a private link. “Quite excellent,” he lied to the cook. “Compliments on your creativity.”

Suddenly, the Foremost was all business. “Lothwer, a premise. Naval dispatch contingent upon raiders’ signal. UP fleet absent because of lack of human-usable comm gear.”

“Agreement,” Lothwer said. Had the Foremost no more to contribute than paraphrasing?

“Scenario for assessment: preemptive disassembly of remaining long-range comm gear. Proactive prevention of human replacement.”

Lothwer considered. Raid if and when the humans tried to build. Raid anything they choose to hide, lest they be building. “Scenario unwise, Foremost. Concession of initiative to the enemy.”

But the Foremost was persistent. “Casualties prediction?”

“Dependent upon human actions. Best case: none. Worst case: full-out assault without control of timing. Heavy casualties.”

For a long time, Mashkith was silent. “Long-range antennae the key. Placement of antenna necessarily on, or at least near, the hull exterior. Best case: raid then. Worst case: bombardment from a clan warship.”

If any activity might be an antenna deployment, destroy the region with missiles. Rather than absorb a few casualties now for the sake of certainty, Mashkith would risk major damage to this unique ship. Some would see such caution as strategy. Lothwer knew it for lost nerve, and it pained him to witness such weakness from one once so daring. “Acceptable,” he admitted. “Implementation on priority basis.”

Acceptable, perhaps, but also imprudent and cowardly. Had the time come again for a new Foremost?

Yet another pseudo-random wobble struck
Harmony
, courtesy of T’bck Ra. The impulse wasn’t much, only strong enough to keep the fusion-drive cutoffs from resetting, but in microgravity it sufficed to detach goop from a spoon held at just the wrong angle. Marines hooted at one of their own suddenly wearing a gray pasty smear on his shirt.

Helmut was not yet hungry enough to try the synthesized glop, although it was reassuring the Centaurs could produce stuff edible for humans. It was too soon to gauge its nutritional completeness, but the stuff had yet to poison anyone. The Snakes had not planned for many human “guests,” nor the would-be rescuers for this lengthy a stay. What few high-energy rations people had carried in their spacesuits were mostly gone. The few human-processed foods the Snakes had somehow obtained were mostly gone. There was a stock of terrestrial seeds, with a small sample of which their new furry friends were already experimenting, but there could be no food from that source for months. Helmut carefully rewrapped the remains of an energy bar on which he had been picking. Any appetite he had had vanished at the thought of being here long enough to help with the harvest.

“You look glum.”

He looked up. Corinne floated in the corridor. “You don’t. Quit it.”

She snagged a ceiling rack to stop herself. “Hey, you’re the spaceship captain. If you could navigate worth spit, you’d be far away from here.” By net she added, “And although I wish you were, I can’t thank you enough for coming.”

He thrust his half-eaten energy bar at her. “Don’t forget the fine dining. All part of the full service you have come to expect from Schiller Space Lines.” And privately, “So what brings you here, shipmate?”

“Hallway gossip. If my eavesdropping skills are any good, there’s a strategy meeting coming up.” She nabbed and carefully ate her drifting crumbs as she snacked and spoke. It was from hunger, he guessed, not adult-onset neatness.

“True. Feel free to tag along. Don’t be surprised if you’re invited to leave.” To the unasked question that was plain on her face—why are
you
welcome?—he offered only: “New job.”

Corinne followed him up two decks to the summit meeting. The usual suspects were mostly present: Carlos and Art; Maj. Kudrin and a few of his senior people; K’choi Gwu ka and T’choi Swee qwo, looking comical in their borrowed human helmets. Ambassador Chung was conspicuously absent, probably lost still in depression. The judgmental presumption made Helmut stop and think. He gave himself a hard stare through a nearby sensor, and did not much care for the weary, defeated-looking guy who looked back. Shape up, he lectured himself. Screw up here, and you’ll have altogether too much time to rest.

One by one, Art distributed network keys for a secure meeting. When Helmut got his, he found human and Centaur AIs already linked in to translate. Corinne, as he had expected, did not get a key. She accepted defeat graciously, departing with a wry smile.

“Thanks, everyone, for coming,” Art said. Helmut felt he had gotten pretty good at reading Art, but his friend’s present mood was elusive. Helmut’s best guess was a trace of the defeatism he was battling. It wasn’t a good sign. “Here’s our status.”

A graphic materialized in the consensual view. It projected a kaleidoscopically complex amalgam of damage and repairs, known and suspected hazards, force dispositions of friend and foe, distributions of Centaur/photonic-controlled vs. Snake/biocomp-controlled ship’s subsystems. For the asking, one could access any non-Snake sensor for more detail in true or pseudo-colored representations.

“It’s all here for your review, but little of it is immediately pressing.” With a magician’s flourish, Art’s avatar dimmed all but a few details. “We’re stuck in the middle of Plan D. The drive remains stopped. We remain unable to send a ‘go’ signal to the fleet.”

Cyber-Kudrin wore a clean-and-pressed uniform real-Kudrin could probably scarcely recognize. “‘We remain unable’ doesn’t do the situation justice. Blowing up antennae to keep the Snakes from phoning home may have been a great idea, but now we’re in the same fix. These guys are quick-thinking—soon after we stopped the fusion drive, they went outside onto the hull and dismantled the rest. With the ka’s support, we began building an interplanetary-capable antenna array from supplies. A Snake raid destroyed it before it could be completed. If you want to call what we have a ceasefire, that was the biggest violation, with plenty of casualties on both sides. So we tried it again, in an area swept clear of all sensors. They raided soon after their last sensor went down. It’s clear they’ve figured out our plan, and that they can mount a fairly decent-sized attack with only implant-to-implant pre-coordination. We had no warning.”

In a manner of speaking, there was lengthy debate what to try next. Mood varied from participant to participant: indignation, desperation, resignation. Conspicuously absent, it seemed to Helmut, was any real conviction.