Harmon searched for the anger that she had brought into the room and couldn’t find it. Chien-Chu! Industrialist, patriot, savior, the list went on and on. She didn’t watch a lot of news, but even she had been aware of the enormous media hoopla that had surrounded his return from the dead, and his promise to help President Anguar against the Hudathans. Public confidence had soared after that in spite of the defeat off Worber’s World. Harmon was impressed in spite of herself. But why was Chien-Chu in charge of some low-rent government agency? And what did he want with her?
Chien-Chu smiled as if able to read her thoughts. He perched on the corner of the desk. “Which brings us to you. The Confederacy needs your help.”
Harmon frowned. “My help? What could I do?”
Chien-Chu looked her straight in the eye. “We want you to travel to a planet designated IH-4762-ASX41, contact the sentients known as the Say’lynt, and recruit them into our armed forces.”
Harmon looked at the industrialist as if he were certifiably insane. “Have you lost your mind? I’m a scientist, not a recruiter. Surely you have other, more qualified candidates.”
“No,” Chien-Chu answered evenly, “we don’t. Did you know a woman named Dr. Valerie Reeman?”
Harmon felt cold liquid run through her veins. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t think about Valerie. Dead these many years, killed when the Hudathans overran her research station, and buried in alien soil. They had gone to college together, majored in marine biology together, and formed the only relationship that Harmon had ever cared about. Yes, she had known Valerie Reeman, and dreamed of her every night. “Yes, I knew Valerie. What about her?”
“She was working with the Say’lynt at the time of her death. They thought very highly of her.”
Harmon knew she was being manipulated, knew she was being used, but couldn’t help herself. “The Say’lynt . . . what are they like?”
“Their bodies are similar to Terran phytoplankton,” Chien-Chu replied, “linked together via hundreds of miles’ worth of translucent fiber, into what amounts to a group consciousness. Each mind, and there are only three or four. incorporates billions of individual plankton, and occupies up to a thousand square miles of ocean.”
“Then what good are they?” Harmon demanded skeptically. “How could they hold a weapon? Program a computer? Or do anything else worthwhile?”
“They have unusual powers,” Chien-Chu said gently. “Based on firsthand observations by General Natalie Norwood, we know the Say’lynt can control sentient minds from hundreds, even thousands of miles away. They did it to the Hudathans. An ability like that could come in handy.”
“But how?” Harmon asked desperately, fearful of what she was being asked to do, but curious just the same. “You said each individual entity takes up a thousand square miles of ocean. Why bother to recruit them if they can’t be moved?”
“Ah, but they can be moved,” Chien-Chu replied smoothly. “Or at least two of them can. And a colony-class freighter has been converted to that very purpose. It’s in orbit waiting for you to board.”
Harmon was silent for a moment. “And if I refuse? If I return to Marianna Three?”
Chien-Chu shrugged. “You won’t refuse, but if you did, I’d have you court-martialed, for disobeying a direct order.”
The scientist stood. Her eyes flashed. “Except that you can’t have me court-martialed . . . because I’m a civilian!”
Chien-Chu smiled. “You were a civilian. Your commission as a captain in the Naval Reserve was approved five days ago. Congratulations.”
Harmon clenched and unclenched her fists. She would have hit him but knew he wouldn’t feel much. “You are a one-hundred-percent dyed-in-the-wool sonofabitch.”
Chien-Chu seemed to give it some thought. He nodded slowly. “Yup, it goes with the job.”
The D’Nooni Dai looked more like a moon than a spaceship. That’s because she was big, round, and covered with what might have been craters, but were actually recessed solar panels, heat exchangers, and beam projectors. And the Nooni, as the crew called her, was old—not as old as Earth’s moon, perhaps, but old enough to have carried two colonies into space. No small feat, given the time and distance involved.
Which helped explain why she was considered to be a good-luck ship, and would no doubt survive her current assignment, or so the ensign believed. His name was Hajin, he was fresh out of the academy, and liked to talk, something he might have done less of had he known that the plain-looking woman who sat next to him was a captain, equivalent in rank to a Marine or Legion colonel, and his commanding officer. He gestured towards the shuttle’s viewscreen. “Would you like the guided tour?”
A full week had passed since Harmon’s conversation with Chien-Chu. During that time she had learned what there was to know about IH-4762-ASX41, read all of the research that Valerie had sent home prior to her death, and been imbued with her friend’s passion for the Say’lynt.
But of even more importance to Harmon was the fact that the sentients had known Valerie, had liked her, and could describe the circumstances of her death. Perhaps learning more about the way her friend had died would provide a sense of closure and free Harmon from the memories that haunted her. In any case, the biologist had used what little leverage she had to obtain five years’ worth of government funding for Marianna Three, and the staff she’d left behind.
That left her free to take on a new commitment, and as with every commitment made during her life, Harmon intended to give it all of her time, energy, and intelligence. She nodded. “Yes, give the guided tour. Tell me about the big things that stick out from the side of the ship.”
Hajin nodded eagerly, advised the larger ship of his passenger’s desire for a “fly-by,” and banked for a better view. “Like all colony-class ships, the Nooni was built in space. That’s because she’s too big to lift under Earth-normal conditions. The structures you referred to are 'bolt-on’ propulsion engines designed to provide the old girl with a whole lot of extra power. I don’t know what the brass have up their sleeves, but it must be heavy, because they reinforced the hull, and more than doubled her power.”
Harmon nodded. Water was heavy, all right, as were the Say’lynt themselves, and the alterations made sense. Chien-Chu might be a scum-sucking sonofabitch, but he was a smart sonofabitch, and a good planner.
The ensign brought the tiny shuttle into the Nooni’s landing bay with a little more of a flourish than the occasion demanded, put his ship down with a gentle thump, and helped the scientist collect her belongings. He noticed that Harmon had twenty-five pounds’ worth of personal gear and two hundred pounds of disks, cubes, books, and other paraphernalia.
Air had been pumped into the bay by the time they were finished, allowing them to exit through the claustrophobic lock. Both were surprised by the shrill sound of the bosun’s pipe, the sight of the ship’s marines standing at present arms, and the officer who came forward to greet them. He wore a dress uniform, a chest full of medals won during the first Hudathan war, and a neatly trimmed beard. Blue eyes twinkled from deeply set sockets. He considered a salute but held out his hand instead. “Commander Tom Duncan, ma’am, welcome aboard.”
Though nominally in command of the ship and the mission, Harmon didn’t take the first part of the job very seriously, nor had she taken the time to read up on naval traditions. She shook Duncan’s hand, nodded dutifully as he introduced the rest of the ship’s officers, and wondered why Chien-Chu had seen fit to assign her a public relations specialist, not to mention his four-person holo crew.
Then, when the introductions were complete, Harmon read the one-size-fits-all “I’m taking command” speech handed to her by Duncan, faked her way through a cursory inspection, and heaved a gigantic sigh of relief when shown to her private quarters. They were spacious and well appointed. A tad too much brass for Harmon’s taste but appropriately spartan. Her baggage had preceded her into the cabin and was stacked in the middle of the well-carpeted de
ck. She saw a bar and waved Duncan in that direction. “So, Commander, how about a drink? Assuming the bar is stocked.”
Duncan smiled and moved towards the bar. He’d been worried about Harmon, and still had some concerns, but felt encouraged. “Thanks . . . I’m on duty at the moment, but a soft drink would be nice. What can I get for you?”
Harmon dropped into a chair and found that it was too soft. “Am I on duty?”
Duncan popped the lid on a soda and poured the contents over some ice. “The captain of a naval vessel is always on duty . . . but allowed to have a drink anyway.”
Harmon laughed. “A gin and tonic, then . . . to celebrate the fact that I didn’t toss my cookies on the way up through the atmosphere.”
Duncan frowned. “Ensign Hajin thinks he’s a hot pilot. Did he get carried away?”
Harmon shook her head. “No, he was fine. I tend to get air sick, that’s all.”
Duncan brought her the gin and tonic. “Well, don’t worry about it. You’re in space now . . . and we won’t have to worry about atmospheric conditions until we orbit ASX41.”
Harmon sipped her drink. It tasted good. “How about the crew . . . do they know about our mission?”
Duncan shook his head. “No. My orders were to keep the lid on until you came aboard. That’s why Hajin was so surprised to learn that his passenger was our commanding officer. They have theories, of course . . . and who wouldn’t, given the way the ship has been configured.”
Harmon pressed the coolness of the glass against the side of her face, realized what she was doing, and pulled it away. “Let’s talk about that if we can. How do you feel about working for what amounts to a civilian?”
Duncan looked at Harmon, trying to gauge her personality. How direct could he afford to be? And did it really matter? Unlike most officers his age, he had come up through the ranks during the last war. He had made lieutenant as a reward for bringing his heavily damaged destroyer into port after every single line officer had been killed. More promotions had followed until the war ended and he had been pushed into early retirement so younger officers could have a chance. All of which meant that he didn’t give a shit about politics, promotion, or a career that never should have been. He shrugged. “I was worried.”
Harmon nodded approvingly. “Was? Or are?”
Duncan chuckled. “Both.”
Harmon smiled. “Me too. I know about marine biology, and I know about leading people, but I don’t know anything about spaceships. Let’s say you run the ship, and I handle the Say‘lynt?”
Duncan beamed his approval. “Sounds good to me, assuming that you’re willing to observe the forms, and that includes a uniform. The crew expects it.”
Harmon indicated her khaki shirt and pants. “I don’t spend much time thinking about clothes. I’ll wear anything you want.”
Duncan nodded. “Excellent. I’ll have a full set of uniforms delivered to your cabin. The everyday one looks pretty much like what you have on.”
“So,” Harmon said, “now that we have the ‘how we’re gonna work together’ stuff out of the way, how about showing me around?”
“It’s called an ‘inspection,’ ” Duncan said patiently, “and I’d love to show you around.”
Harmon smiled. “Right. Got it. And there’s one more thing . . . Some people say I have a temper. They’re wrong, of course, but it keeps cropping up. Let me know if someone starts a rumor like that.”
Duncan raised his glass in acknowledgment. “No offense, ma’am, but commanding officers tend to be temperamental anyway, and nobody would be especially surprised.”
Harmon’s eyebrows shot up. She got to her feet. “Really? I’m starting to like the military. Civilians get all pissy the minute you blow off some steam. So, time to inspect the troops.”
“Sailors, ratings, or the ship’s company,” Duncan corrected her, “unless referring to the marines when dirtside, where the term ‘troops’ would apply.”
“Whatever,” Harmon said impatiently. “Let’s go.”
If the Nooni could be said to have a “bow” it was the topmost part of the ship. The control, living, and environmental spaces were located below that, and weren’t especially interesting, not to Harmon’s eye anyway, especially when compared to the vast emptiness that filled the center portion of the ship. This was where hundreds of compartments had once been, filled with thousands of “sleepers,” each sealed in his or her high-tech coffin, slumbering away the years as the ship made the long sublight journey to a distant star.
But that had been towards the end of the Second Confederacy, before a reliable hyperdrive had been discovered, and the need for such journeys ended. All of which meant that the ship was what? Three, four hundred years old? Or even more than that? It hardly made a difference. The point was that she had survived, been hollowed out, and reinforced to handle her next set of passengers.
As Harmon followed Duncan out onto the catwalk following the circumference of the hull she felt a momentary dizziness as the deck disappeared and it seemed as if she might fall. But the grating was firm beneath her sneakers and the solidity of the handrail served to restore her sense of equilibrium. The space was absolutely huge, like the inside of the sports dome in Sydney, except with the field scooped away to match the openess above. A large column ran down through the center of the space. Duncan pointed to it.
“That’s the ship’s keel, or spine, and plays a major role in holding her together. Lift tubes run to either side of it so that the crew can move back and forth between their quarters and the engineering spaces without climbing up and over the tank.
“When the tank is filled, an artificial current will be set in motion by the nozzles located around the sides of the habitat, the water will be filtered through the units down there, and real sunlight will be brought in via external collectors and fiber-optic pathways.”
Large though the tank was, Harmon wondered how the Say’lynt would feel, assuming they agreed to come aboard. Would the tank seem claustrophobic after a thousand square miles of ocean? Would their health be affected? There were all sorts of questions, and with the exception of the relatively small amount of data sent in by Valerie prior to her death, damned few answers.
Which brought her back to a fundamental question: The Say’lynt’s special talent not withstanding, why go to all this trouble and expense, when the same amount of money spent on conventional weapons might produce considerably higher returns? Unless there was another, deeper reason, a political reason, which would explain why someone like Chien-Chu was involved.
Harmon stopped abruptly. She’d come to the moment of truth that sometimes follows the right question: the Confederacy of Sentient Beings was just that, a collection of self-aware beings, many of whom were completely un-equipped for war with a race like the Hudathans. Humans and similar races would have to do most of the actual fighting and suffer most of the casualties; a fact that could weaken if not destroy the Confederacy. Which not only explained the need to recruit the Say’lynt, but the need to publicize the recruitment. Now Harmon knew why the holo crew was aboard.
The biologist looked at Duncan, then out over the man-made abyss. What had seemed eccentric and wasteful suddenly seemed important. The Hudathans had killed Valerie. Now they would pay. And Harmon would do her part.
19
The effects of gunpowder, that great agent in our military activity, were learnt by experience, and up to this hour experiments are continually in progress to investigate them more fully.
Carl von Clausewitz
On War
Standard year 1832
Planet Jericho, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
In spite of the fact that he had killed hundreds of sentient beings since becoming a machine-thing, and taken part in three planetary assaults, Rebor Raksala-Ba was scared. As were most of his comrades, because even though the Regiment of the Living Dead had acquired an awesome reputation in the minds of the Hudathan people, they had never gone head to head wit
h the Legion’s much-vaunted cyborgs. They were about to do so.
What if their armor couldn’t handle the Trooper IIs’ offensive weaponry? What if there were more quads than they’d been led to expect? What if the humans had new weapons against which they had no defense? Those questions and more haunted the Hudathan as his shuttle bucked its way down through Jericho’s Earth-normal atmosphere. So, even though the pep talk was all too predictable, Raksala-Ba listened anyway, preferring it to the voices in his head. As usual, there was no way to know whether the Observer was on-board or had been recorded earlier.
“Like a disease that spreads via the blood, the humans make their way from system to system, leaving corruption behind them. Our job is to find such pustules, lance them, and cauterize the resulting wound.”
The ship rocked violently from side to side as a volley of surface-to-air missiles exploded nearby and transformed one of the assault boats into a cloud of metallic confetti.
Unable to see beyond the bulkhead opposite him, and terrified of his own fear, Raksala-Ba concentrated on the Observer’s voice. It continued unchanged. “Once on the ground, you will disembark, move in a northerly direction, and engage the human Legion. Yes, they will place their Trooper IIs in your way, but the alien cyborgs will fall by the scores as your superior weaponry cuts them down. The quads will be more difficult, but there will be relatively few of them to contend with, and you will emerge victorious.
“Once that task has been accomplished, you must seek out and kill the regular troops, remembering that the humans breed like Radu, and even a handful could reinfect the stars.”
The cyborgs knew a cue when they heard one, and the word “Blood!” reverberated through the troop bay. Up forward, in a jump-seat behind the copilot’s position, the Observer ran one last check on their vital signs, found everything to his liking, and closed his eyes against the explosions outside. The arrow had been released and would fly straight and true.
Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle Page 22
