Ship of Destiny

by Frank Chadwick

  Nuvaash heard this, but his attention was now on his commlink, which vibrated insistently. He realized from their expressions that both the admiral and the commander were experiencing the same phenomenon. He saw his call was from an acquaintance, an uHoko Speaker for The Enemy, on the staff of the armistice commission. He opened the link.

  Takaar, I don’t know where you are, but you should to get to a viewer. Our picket craft tell us that a ship exited jump space above the plane approximately five minutes ago. The signal has just reached our sensor platforms as it exited over fifty million miles out. It matches no known ship profiles of any Cottohazz member state and it is not a Troatta battleship. It has been sending a tight beam flat vid signal since emerging, but it is an empty carrier signal. We expect they may begin transmitting once they know they have found a receiver.

  “Thank you, my friend. I will remember this favor.”

  He cut the connection but saw Commander Atwater-Jones already turning one smartwall of her office to viewer mode. She switched it to the US Navy Channel Four—Restricted Live Feed. “This is where they’ll show whatever they have. If it isn’t too dreadful, they will rebroadcast it later on the public feeds.”

  They watched the blank screen for what must have been three or four minutes before it flickered and an image appeared, the image of a being Nuvaash felt as if he almost knew, having heard so many stories and watched so many vid feeds and holocon records. In the subdued light of the ship from which the image was transmitted, the Guardian’s halo shimmered and sparkled.

  “I am the Guardian called Te’Anna, and I have come a very long way to give you a message of great importance.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Moments later, on board CCS-7 USS Olympus Mons,

  in high orbit above K’tok

  23 September 2134

  Admiral Cedric Goldjune, the Outworld Coalition’s chief of naval operations, watched the flat vid speech with a growing sense of unreality. This wasn’t how the game was played. This made no sense. It had to be some sort of trick. Almost everything P’Daan was bargaining for, everything he offered in exchange for some portion of their freedom, this Te’Anna was offering as a gift, without conditions: the secret of large organism immortality and the means to implement it, for those who so chose—and who in their right mind wouldn’t? And the secret of the jump drive. She was even throwing in their advanced data-processing technology, which was the key to both of the other advances, something P’Daan had not mentioned.

  The only thing P’Daan could offer which Te’Anna couldn’t was peace, and Cedric had to admit peace was the thing he valued least. Her offer was like a dream come true, and he did not believe in dreams coming true this easily. People didn’t just give you the things you longed for, you had to take them. That was the way it should be: you appreciated them more that way.

  P’Daan would probably make them fight, and the rumor was P’Daan could find a thousand ships to throw against them. Cedric had been going over the fleet intel archives, and the various navies of the Cottohazz could easily double that, more like triple it, in terms of deep space armed combatants of one sort or another. They weren’t all as capable as the latest Human or Varoki cruisers, but enough of them were. Let P’Daan bring his thousand ships. The Cottohazz could meet it with a hell of a combined fleet.

  And someone would have to command that fleet.

  Forty thousand kilometers below, Cassandra and Rear Admiral Goldjune walked in step toward the reception in the headquarters complex. As they approached the guards at the entrance, both in the uniforms of Nigerian Naval Infantry, she remembered something she had wondered earlier but had gotten lost in the rest of their conversation.

  “You say there’s a new special envoy from the Cottohazz executive council en route?”

  “Yes,” the admiral answered, “entered system yesterday but won’t get here for nearly a week. He’s Varoki, named Labonna, Latonna, something like that.”

  “Arigapaa e-Lotonaa?” she said and momentarily broke stride.

  “Yes, that’s the one,” the admiral said and turned to her. “How’d you know? Oh, yeah, enemy command structure and all. But the Cottohazz Executive Council isn’t exactly the enemy.”

  “Not as of yet, sir, but the evening is still young. In one way, it makes perfect sense they would send e-Lotonaa. He’s had more direct experience with K’tok than anyone else in the Khap’uKhaana—that’s their diplomatic corps, sir. He was even interim governor while they were transitioning to independence. Of course, with all this business about the jump drive, I’d say he has a devil of a conflict of interest.”

  “How’s that?”

  “His adopted daughter is heiress to the largest share of the e-Traak holdings, probably the largest private fortune in the Cottohazz. Traak was one of the supposed inventors of the jump drive. He and another of the inventors, a chap named Simkitic, formed a partnership which has become quite successful.”

  “Good Lord, you’re talking about Simki-Traak Transtellar?”

  “Yes, sir, now one of the two largest manufacturers of jump drives in the Cottohazz.” She remembered, but did not mention, that they had manufactured the jump drive the admiral had earlier sent her to inspect.

  “So, is this gentleman a bad hombre?”

  “I’m afraid much worse than that, sir: he is an unknown quantity. As much as we know about him, we have been unable to clearly identify him with any internal faction within the government, which means either he is remarkably good at disguising his positions or he is a loose cannon, neither of which is comforting.”

  “I don’t suppose just being an honest and conscientious government official is very likely, huh?” the admiral said.

  Cassandra did not answer what was clearly a rhetorical question.

  Cassandra liked diplomatic receptions, as a general rule. If she had more rank and prominence it would have been different. Important people would have watched her, taken note of what she did. As a comparatively junior officer she could mingle with the other junior staff, who were generally more interesting and certainly more informative to talk to. Unfortunately, she found herself under tow by the admiral, at least for the moment.

  The reception was hosted in a large meeting room from which the tables and chairs had been removed. White-jacketed naval steward’s mates crisscrossed the open area with platters of sparkling wine, cocktails, and hors d’oeuvres, those for Human consumption made with indigenously grown ingredients, and so mostly variations on what they called Crab K’tok.

  “Come on, Commander, I’ll introduce you around.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, sir, but really, that’s all right.”

  “No, I don’t mind. Now where . . . ? Well I’ll be dipped! Look at that, the senator talking to two Varoki diplomats as if they were old pals. Looks like we could have brought Nuvaash after all. I never thought I’d see Ramirez y Sesma so chummy with Varoki. Think it’s because the folks back home won’t know about it and it’s all been an act?”

  “Anything is possible, sir, but I think it more likely because the world’s turned upside down. The Varoki are no longer the greatest threat, and so they become potentially the most valuable ally.”

  The admiral looked at her. “That is a strangely unsettling thought.”

  They made their way through the crowd and in moments were beside the senator and the two diplomats. Ramirez y Sesma was in his mid-fifties, tall and handsome in a distinguished sort of way, complete with graying temples in his wavy black hair. Admiral Goldjune introduced Cassandra. The senator took her hand and gave her a look she was certain had melted hearts—probably a great many hearts. He had that intangible but essential ingredient of attractiveness—self-confidence—and his was accompanied by a warm, generous smile which enfolded everyone around him in the embrace of his confidence, let you know his confidence extended to you as much as to himself. He wordlessly complimented her with his undivided attention, as if she and he were suddenly the only people in t
he room, and when he had to turn back to Admiral Goldjune, a look of regret flashed across his face so intense it bordered on the tragic.

  An aide appeared at his elbow, speaking softly but insistently and gesturing to another clump of civilians. The senator made his formal farewell to the diplomats and Admiral Goldjune, then kissed her hand and shot her a sad, helpless smile of apology as he allowed himself to be led away. Ah, his eyes seemed to say, what might have been were it not for the call of duty. He actually kissed her hand! Lord, he was good at this! It was all theater, of course, but so was Shakespeare, Cassandra thought, and no one looked down their nose at that.

  The admiral was soon involved in conversation with the Varoki diplomats from the armistice commission and Cassandra made her escape, acquiring a flute of sparkling white wine in the process and an hors d’oeuvre which resembled crab meat wrapped with seaweed, but somehow tasted remarkably like rumaki. She took both of them from trays prominently marked “Human Consumption Only,” a precaution necessary in such a mixed crowd. She saw all six of the intelligent species represented in the reception, an extraordinarily cosmopolitan gathering on a sparsely populated colony planet such as K’tok. The world was indeed turned upside down.

  She saw Choice at the reception but the musician was surrounded by a half-dozen admirers, listening with serious concentration to her discourse. Cassandra couldn’t make out what it was over the babble of voices in the hall but imagined it concerned music. People do not hang on every word like that if it has to do with cybernetic systems analysis, at least not at a reception like this. Within five minutes Cassandra had struck up a conversation with a massive, shambling Zaschaan diplomat. She was always somewhat astonished there were any among the notoriously ill-tempered Zaschaan capable of such an occupation, but he was surprisingly good-natured and she was again astonished to realize he had a very dry, ironic sense of humor. Within a few minutes he had her laughing. When she felt her commlink vibrate and saw the ID tag for Nuvaash, she felt genuine regret as she excused herself.

  “Yes,” she said after opening the link.

  There is a development you and the admiral should be aware of, Commander. Minutes ago, the Troatta remote probes began broadcasting a powerful coded signal. At the same time, we detected seventeen jump departure signatures from what seem to be the equivalent of jump courier missiles, all launched by the Troatta battleships.

  Cassandra felt the blood drain from her face and for a moment she fought dizziness. She thought they would have more time than this. She looked at Rear Admiral Goldjune, standing near a Katami military officer, but could tell both of them were listening to their own commlinks, and as she scanned the room she realized the babble of conversation was fading as more and more guests began receiving commlink messages. She made her way toward the admiral, but he saw her and moved to meet her. As they approached each other she saw he was talking to someone, undoubtedly by commlink.

  “ . . . got a clear recording of the broadcast? Good. Tight beam it up to one of our jump courier missiles on standby and send it off to Eleventh Fleet on Bronstein’s World. Make sure it’s not set to broadcast, though, understand? Just tight beam data transfer. As soon as it’s loaded, dispatch it.”

  He looked up at her and shook his head. “I should have commed Cedric as soon as you told me. Son of a bitch!” he added in an uncharacteristic display of profanity. Around them the babble of voices began growing, taking on an increasingly insistent tone. “Come on, let’s get to the communication center. At least it has a Marine guard on duty who’ll keep this mob out of our hair.”

  They walked quickly and purposefully out into the corridor, waving away the questions of the civilian guests. The people in uniform were either still talking on their commlinks or hurrying out as well. No more than halfway to the communications room the Admiral received another comm. Cassandra heard only half of the conversation.

  “What do you mean it’s down? . . . Well then load it to another courier missile and send that.” He stopped walking and his eyes widened for a moment. “What do you mean they’re all down? . . . Well, get it to a ship that . . . How can every ship’s jump drive be down? . . . Very well, I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  He looked at Cassandra and shook his head, clearly unsettled by this new development. “Well, I think we know what that broadcast was. New fleet policy is to routinely decouple jump drive cores from their actuators so no malicious signal can trigger a jump. This signal just made every jump core in the system go to sleep, maybe permanently.”

  “Oh, God!” Cassandra said. “Those jump couriers the Troatta sent. What if those are carrying similar broadcasts to the other Cottohazz worlds?”

  The admiral shook his head. “No. P’Daan probably backtracked the course of the probe that took Cam Ranh Bay to him, but how could he know where the other Cottohazz star systems are?”

  Cassandra had no answer to that, but it did not make the dull sense of dread recede. Where were those probes going? Admiral Goldjune’s head rose slightly and turned to one side, which she took as another incoming comm.

  “Yes . . . Say again? . . . How many? . . . Very well. I’m almost there. Better set up a holoconference with Vice Admiral Stevens and the CNO.” He looked back at Cassandra, his face visibly paler. “More jump emergence signatures: thirty-one of them, very large, and they don’t look like they’re ours.”

  Admiral Cedric Goldjune, Outworld Coalition Chief of Naval Operations, tapped his Annapolis class ring nervously on the arm of the chair in the holosuite on USS Olympus Mons, waiting for the others to materialize. His younger brother, Jacob, appeared first and they exchanged nods. Then Vice Admiral Gordon Stevens—“Gordo” to most other flag officers—commander of First Combined Fleet, physically walked into the holosuite and sat down at the station next to Cedric. He looked harried.

  “Gordo, what the hell’s going on?” Cedric asked.

  “Sir, near as we can tell every Cottohazz jump drive in the star system is offline, apparently as a result of that broadcast from their so-called sensor probes. A couple civilian ships are still running diagnostics, but that’s what it looks like.”

  “Goddamned civilian diplomats!” Cedric said. “I told those fucking idiots we needed to deal with those probes, but they wouldn’t listen. Now look at us!”

  Well, he knew that was a bit of an exaggeration, but he’d mentioned something about it and wanted it in the record as soon as possible. His brother Jacob looked preoccupied, and was used to his explosions in any case.

  Stevens looked surprised, and then skeptical. “Yes, sir,” Stevens said. “We’re stuck here. Hopefully when no word shows up back home or on Akaampta, someone will think to send reinforcements.”

  Cedric wasn’t sure Stevens was the right man for this job. He’d mishandled the whole fitness report issue between Bitka and young Larry, six months ago, and now he looked like he might be trying to second-guess his superior. But if Cedric fired Stevens, who could he put in charge? Not his brother. Maybe he could take command himself, but as disaster-prone as the situation was, that was more exposure than he really wanted.

  “Hope you’re right, Gordo, but I’m not sure you are,” Jacob put in.

  “Why’s that?” Stevens said.

  “I got a pretty sharp intel officer down here wondering where all those jump missiles went to that left about the same time. If somehow P’Daan figured out a way to locate the other major worlds of the Cottohazz, and seeded them with more of these ECM probes, this isn’t going to just be our problem.”

  Hell! If it really was Cottohazz-wide, Cedric realized, they might be in deeper trouble than he’d thought.

  “Gordo, what’s the word on those new ships that showed up?” Cedric asked.

  “They’re Troatta battlewagons, all right, what Bitka’s people call long ships, thirty-one of them. They emerged from J-space nineteen million kilometers above the plane and they’re closing at fifteen clicks a second, so we’ve got fifteen days, little more if they dec
elerate to enter orbit. P’Daan’s squadron is standing away from K’tok, presumably to rendezvous with the new ships, or maybe try for an intercept on that other Guardian ship, Te’Anna’s, before it makes orbit. Their mean orbital radius right now is about seventy thousand klicks and they’re nearly at escape velocity.”

  “They join up,” Cedric said, “and they’ll have thirty-five of those long ships. What have we got?”

  Stevens gestured with his data pad but didn’t consult it, probably knew the roster by heart. “Not counting auxiliaries and transports, First Combined Fleet has twelve cruisers, one destroyer carrier, eight mint-condition destroyers, and three beat-up ones. The Cottohazz Peacekeeping Squadron has three more cruisers: two Zaschaan, and one Katami. The uBakai armistice delegation’s escort squadron has three more Varoki cruisers: two uBakai and one uKaMaat.”

  “So, eighteen cruisers and eleven destroyers?” the CNO replied, nodding. “That’s better than I thought. We’ve almost got numeric parity. Hell, Bitka beat them outnumbered two-to-one and with only an armed transport—twice!”

  Stevens looked like he wanted to argue with that but Jacob beat him to it. “Bitka fooled them, with a different trick each time. They aren’t going to fall for anything like that again. And those Troatta ships weren’t designed to be used in pairs, they’re designed to fight as part of a phalanx, a solid wall of firing ships, which is how they’ll come at us. You throw our ships against that wall of meson gun fire, they’ll shoot us to pieces.”

  “He’s right, sir,” Stevens said. “It’s like boxing with someone whose arms are longer than yours. They hit us before we can get close enough to land a punch.”

  “Our missiles have more reach than those meson guns,” Cedric reminded them both.

  “Not really, sir,” Stevens said. “We can launch them from farther out, but they’ve still got to get to within five thousand kilometers before they can hurt them. Our destroyers and some of the cruisers can actually start punching at ten thousand kilometers with their lasers, but when the Troatta can hit us from over forty thousand klicks, well . . . ”