The Razor's Edge

by Seanan McGuire

  * * *

  The keys of the keyboard clacked as Jose typed his message to Craylxz, “We hacked into the navigation system. We know where we’re going and where we’re at. We just don’t have any way of changing what we’re doing. We did figure out how to increase the efficiency for you though.”

  “That good. I think,” came the reply.

  The translator still wasn’t perfect, so Jose didn’t know if Craylxz would think about it or just didn’t complete his thought. He figured it was the first one and watched. Craylxz moved meticulously through the rows, checking the wave patterns and spraying the brains. Craylxz stopped and floated in place. Jose could see him quivering, much like an excited dog being told to sit when it knew it was going to get a treat.

  “I know. Move sun,” sent Craylxz.

  “Move sun. Move the sun. Of course! Move the sun,” cried Jose. “George, we just need to move the sun!”

  Jose ran out of his cubicle and shouted out to everyone, “Can anyone help me move the sun?”

  * * *

  Craylxz conveniently forgot to turn on the sleep wave that night, and the group worked during their entire time off shift discussing and calculating just how much to move the sun.

  “There you go, boss,” said Carol. “Just say the word and I’ll enter the new coordinates.”

  “Are we sure this is enough?” asked Jose, even though he knew it was. The group had checked and re-checked the calculations. When Carol hit return, their fate would be sealed.

  “Time to go. In the words of Picard, make it so,” said Jose.

  They watched the new coordinates propagate through the navigation charts. At this scale, the movement was barely perceptible. Now, all they had to do was sit back and do their job. Their unconcious minds would do the rest.

  * * *

  Salar Kluyth surveyed the chamber. “You have done well, Juyk. The calculations are complete a full seven cycles ahead of schedule. The fleet is poised and will begin the traverse during the next cycle.”

  “Thank you, Salar Kluyth. The fleet must conquer,” said Juyk bowing.

  “I have recommended you for promotion to Salar after the next conquest. I trust you will not disappoint,” said Kluyth.

  Juyk bowed to the departing Salar. “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  Once the sphincter closed, Juyk straightened and looked at Craylxz. “You have done well, caretaker. I will see that you are rewarded. Perhaps better chambers or company of a female of your kind would be appreciated,” said Juyk.

  Craylxz did his best to keep from vibrating with glee. “My work has been reward enough, Domar. Thank you.”

  Juyk turned to go. “Very well, continuing will be your reward.”

  Craylxz waited until the chamber had closed and vibrated happily, making a noise that a human might even call a laugh.

  * * *

  Two cycles later the Vyrlk fleet slammed into the Sicbar system’s sun. The last transmission detected by Sicbar was a weak signal broadcast in a strange language later translated to be, “The fleet has been conquered.”

  Eleven Days

  Walter H. Hunt

  Author’s Note: A hundred and fifty years before the events of The Dark Wing, humanity has obtained faster-than-light technology from the alien rashk; several nations have expanded to the stars near Sol and established colonies, coming gradually into conflict. Ultimately this leads to the War of Accession, and the establishment of the Solar Empire. Its first emperor, Willem MacDowell, is still a naval officer in the European Union navy in this story: his greatest role ahead of him, and at this time out of sight.

  ~ ~ ~

  Six European Union starships emerged from jump transition at Sherrard Zeta Alpha jump point, thirty degrees spinward from the A-B axis, their vector aimed directly for the center of A’s gravity well. The formation was nearly perfect—after four decades of development in jump technology, the transition point for a mass the size of an interstellar vessel was less than 100% certain, but the crews were well-trained and experienced.

  Sherrard System consisted of two stars fifteen astronomical units apart—the distance from the home star to the orbit of the planet Uranus. One, Zeta Herculis A, was practically the double of Earth’s Sun: a bit brighter, a bit larger, and had a single habitable planet. The other, B, was a ruddy orange, and didn’t even have a gas giant. In the saddle area between the two stars’ solar systems there was an irregular asteroid field. It would have been an ideal place for a jump point other than that—but it was an ideal place for mining ships, manned and unmanned. Therefore, instead of arriving at the gravitational midpoint, ships jumping into Sherrard either arrived at the far edge of A’s gravity well or at the extremes of the asteroid field, where there was enough mass to create a reasonable Muir Limit but fewer navigational hazards to trouble transitioning ships.

  Within two minutes, the six ships were moving in unison, keeping station in the outer system. On their pilot’s boards, all six commanders could see the four ships in orbit near the habitable world begin to alter course and speed; they noted the presence and readiness of static defenses around the system.

  It was obvious that they were expected.

  * * *

  Commodore Willem MacDowell leaned back in the pilot’s seat of Warren, a cup of coffee in his hand. There was activity all over the bridge—not the frantic sort that accompanied gunnery exchanges, but the slow, deliberate kind that went with the several hours’ wait before any sort of engagement might occur. Things were going to happen, but there was ample time to prepare for them; and some time to examine Commander Valery Orlov as well.

  The Naval Intelligence man was a few years his junior. Wiry, handsome in a spare, almost ascetic way—out of uniform he’d look very good in a tailored suit, MacDowell suspected.

  “That’ll be Trent,” said Orlov, pointing to the Westphalia-class ship on the Warren’s pilot’s display. “The captain is Samuel Andreotti. Do you know him, sir?”

  Orlov was always watching. He was ostensibly on board Warren to provide and evaluate intel for the commodore and his current command; but it was no secret that Orlov’s true presence was the same as every ONI officer assigned to every ship in the EU’s fleet: to watch for political orthodoxy in its commanders.

  Well, MacDowell thought, not much to see here. Not much time for politics, especially these days.

  During Orlov’s tour aboard Warren—a little over a year so far—he’d found little to comment about, and the commodore hadn’t allowed himself to be drawn in on political issues. He wasn’t being overcautious; he just hasn’t had much to say.

  “Don’t be coy with me, Commander,” MacDowell said, smiling. “You’ve read the same reports that I have. I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t know.”

  “I know you haven’t served with him, Commodore. But have you met him off duty? Or any of the other rebel officers?”

  “I’ve never met Andreotti or Hebert. Luisa Davis of Van Diemen was at a diplomatic reception at New Lisbon a year or two ago, but didn’t make much of an impression.”

  “What about Rouchou?”

  “The XO of Hector? Don’t know her either, except that she must be—must have been—a fine officer.”

  “Fine enough to commit mutiny?” Orlov said, with something approaching a smirk. “According to Captain Hamadjiou’s report, she didn’t have any trouble taking control of Hector when the other three made their move. That doesn’t sound like a fine officer to me.”

  “I mean as regards her skill. For Wallace MacEwan to have picked her as his exec, she has to have been highly qualified.”

  Orlov snorted.

  ONI didn’t look at things, or use words, as a naval line officer might: to MacDowell, though, Orlov wore a brand-new uniform, a civilian in costume rather than someone with twenty years on the deck of a starship.

  MacDowell resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “We shouldn’t underestimate her.”

  Orlov took his time to respond. He glance
d at the pilot’s board, then gave Commodore MacDowell a good long look. “It’s been five days since Captain Hamadjiou arrived at New Paris with Lacerta, nine days since Andreotti, Hebert, Davis and … this fine officer decided to seize control of Sherrard System. We shouldn’t underestimate the amount of work they—and their fellow mutineers—could have managed in that amount of time.

  “Do you think, sir, that MacEwan and the rest of the loyal personnel—assuming there are any—” this drew a sharp look from MacDowell. “I’m sorry,” Orlov said, not really meaning it from the tone of his voice. “Do you think they’re still alive?”

  “There’s no way of knowing. But I’m guessing that they are.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “Right now,” MacDowell answered, taking a sip of coffee, “what the mutineers have done is court-martial illegal, punishable by imprisonment. If they killed officers and crew of EU ships, then it becomes personal. As far as I’m concerned, if they’ve killed fellow soldiers and sailors, there’s nowhere they can hide—inside or outside the European Union—where I won’t find them. And God help them when I do.”

  * * *

  The rebellion at Sherrard was a clever attempt at a fait accompli. Rebels on five ships—Trent, Maurepas, Van Diemen, Hector and Lacerta—had looked to seize control of their vessels and the manufacturing facilities in the system. In four cases it was successful and popular; but aboard Lacerta, its skipper Theo Hamadjiou, had surprised the rebels by making for jump when the plot was hatched. The chief conspirator aboard Lacerta was its chief engineer, Ed Barbieri; Hamadjiou was uninvolved, and when it came down to it most of the crew sided with their skipper. Sam Andreotti of Trent, the rebel leader and self-styled admiral, had tried to talk him into joining them and then sent Maurepas after them when Theo had told him to go to hell—but neither cajoling nor threats were enough. Barbieri and a few confederates had found themselves at the business end of lasers, and by the time Lacerta made it into jump—damaged, but still spaceworthy—they were in the brig or, in Barbieri’s case, dead on the deck.

  Lacerta made it to the EU naval base at New Paris by way of Schönberg System. Commodore MacDowell’s squadron, with Lacerta added, was cleared for action and was directed to return to Sherrard System with explicit orders: take Sherrard back from the mutineers and do it quickly, before anyone else got involved—specifically the North American Union and Greater China. Within twenty-four hours, the squadron was under way.

  * * *

  Orlov, who was certainly no tactician, was all for diving into the gravity well of Sherrard A and taking on the rebels directly. There were too many variables, however: MacDowell’s orders were different than Orlov’s—and the commodore wanted to know where things stood before he committed his forces.

  Less than an hour after making transition, MacDowell’s squadron received the first communication from the mutineers. Neither Trent—Andreotti’s flagship—nor any of the other three ships had answered comm or responded to MacDowell’s official declaration of their recognized state of mutiny against the EU government; instead, Warren captured a broadcast comm from Sherrard Central:

  “To all ships of the European Union in Sherrard System: Sherrard Central Starbase, Free Republic of Sherrard sends, Admiral Samuel Andreotti commanding.

  “Be informed that your vessels are in violation of sovereign Sherrard space as of 6 February 2160. A comm squirt has been sent to the European Union Government, and representatives of the Free Republic have presented their credentials to the United Nations. Pending recognition of their plenipotentiary authority, it is requested that forces under the command of the European Union withdraw beyond the outermost orbital of Sherrard-A.

  “The Free Republic of Sherrard has applied for protected status under the terms of the Second Treaty of São Paulo and, pending notification of the disposition of its claim by the United Nations General Assembly, is prepared to consider any incursion into its space by forces under the command of foreign nationals to be an unprovoked act of war, pursuant to which it disavows any responsibility for damage or casualty that may result from conflict arising therefrom.

  “Message ends. Andreotti, Admiral, Sherrard FRN.”

  “What crap,” Orlov said, when the proclamation—or whatever it was—had finished playing again on comp in MacDowell’s ready room. “He’s sure got balls to send out something like that.”

  “He doesn’t really expect us to do what he says,” MacDowell said. He glanced at the pilot’s board display: the battle fleet, such as it was, of the Free Republic of Sherrard were three or four minutes from turnover. “It’s posturing for the record.”

  Whatever MacDowell was going to do, the decision would have to be made now. It was his call—except that it really wasn’t: Orlov had something to say on the subject. Quite a bit, actually: Admiral Nason might be able to act unilaterally without a political officer weighing in—but a mere commodore didn’t have that latitude.

  Especially these days, he thought.

  “What does he expect us to do?”

  “Blink.”

  They watched the display slowly update. Finally Orlov said, “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m not planning on blinking, if that’s what you’re asking. But until we start shooting, Andreotti and his people are still citizens of the European Union.”

  “They’re traitors and mutineers, Commodore.”

  “They’re—” MacDowell began, then checked his anger. “They’re going to get about three minutes to convince me not to shoot.” He turned away from Orlov and walked through the connecting door onto the bridge, his ONI officer following behind.

  * * *

  Settled in the pilot’s chair, MacDowell ordered comm to hail Trent. It didn’t take long for an image of Sam Andreotti to appear in the clear area starboard of the captain’s chair and pilot’s board. He was seated in his ready-room, not even on the bridge, as if he hadn’t a care that his little fleet was about to engage a larger force here to arrest him for mutiny.

  “Commodore,” he said, smiling faintly.

  “Captain,” MacDowell answered evenly. “Though I noticed that you signed your manifesto as ‘Admiral.’ Better to reign in hell, I guess.”

  “Something like that. What can I do for you?”

  “Easy answer?” MacDowell glanced sidelong at Orlov, who stood glowering with his arms crossed in front of him, out of vidcam range. “Surrender. Save the Union some ordnance and me some time.”

  “You don’t really expect that.”

  “You didn’t really expect me to withdraw my force from Sherrard System. I’m a reasonable man, Andreotti: if I weren’t, we’d be down your throat right now. You’re awfully calm for someone who’s outnumbered and clearly in the wrong—what haven’t you told me?”

  Andreotti leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him on the table. “You know, Commodore, I’ve always liked and respected you, and I know you’re looking for a compromise here.”

  “I’m not. But go on.”

  “The new Sherrard government I have the honor to serve is very popular with most of the people of Sherrard, and most of the folks under my command were more than happy to have the opportunity for promotion.”

  “To admiral, for instance.”

  “To take one example. Not too many openings for admiral in the European Union, sir. Not too many captaincies either. But not everyone was so happy with it. Some of the… malcontents didn’t take it too kindly. I’m sure they’d be just as happy to be quit of Sherrard, and we’d be glad to accommodate them … except for one thing.”

  MacDowell saw where he was going. “Except that I’m here to put a stop to the ‘new Sherrard government.’”

  “That’s right,” Andreotti said. “It’d be a shame if anything were to happen to them.”

  It wasn’t quite the same as innocent civilians in the line of fire, but it still bothered MacDowell. “That sounds like a threat, Andreotti. You can’t hold them hostage forever.�
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  “I don’t have to hold them forever, sir. Just long enough for Sherrard’s status to be resolved by the UN. If the General Assembly decides that we merit independent status, then you’d be committing an act of war against a sovereign power by attacking us after that.”

  “That won’t happen.” But it might, MacDowell thought: the General Assembly consisted of a large number of small, bickering nations, most of whom didn’t have the resources or power to colonize human space.

  Some of them had bought the rashk jump technology forty years ago and never built so much as an unmanned probe with it. A chance to stick it to a spacefaring nation like the EU would be delightful irony for the General Assembly.

  “I’m betting it will,” Andreotti said, a satisfied smile on his face. “And soon. Our representative in Genève says that it will be brought up within the next week. So until then, your loyal troops stay where they are, and you’re well advised to stay where you are. Then you can take them aboard Warren and get the hell out of Sherrard space. Sir.”

  “I can blow you to the next universe at any time,” MacDowell answered angrily. “Soldiers and sailors in the service of the European Union know very well that their lives are at risk whenever they’re on duty. I don’t think they’re waiting to be rescued, and I’m not ready to bargain with you. You’d better reconsider your position, Andreotti.”

  “A hundred and fifty officers and crew dead because you can’t show a little prudent patience, Commodore MacDowell? Surely you’re not interested in betting your career on that.”