by Ian Douglas
“Why the Cluster Gate?” Dominick asked.
“Because the Xul know that, right now, the way the codes are set, the Cluster Gate leads to the Sirius Gate, and that means it’s only a matter of time before they come through and find Earth. If we can destroy the Cluster Gate, well, let me ask our N’mah friends. What are the chances that they wouldn’t know which gate, out of all those thousands of gates, was ours?”
The N’mah rumbled together for a moment, in consultation. “We do not have enough information to answer,” one said, finally. “But…we are hopeful. The Xul are numerous and spread throughout much of the Galaxy, and beyond. But there are so very many stars, so many possible systems. You are right in saying that the only link they have at this time to this system—and to your Earth—is the one leading from the Cluster Gate. Destroy that gate, and the Xul ship guarding it, and we may remain undiscovered.”
“Then, ladies, gentlemen, and N’mah,” Ramsey said, grinning, “this is what we’ll do….”
General Dominick
Personal Quarters
UFR/USS Ranger
1750 hours, Shipboard time
As soon as he could, Dominick had returned to the narrow closet that was his quarters on board the carrier, sealed the hatch, and put a block on his implant communications. Who the hell was in command of this expeditionary force, anyway? That goddamned Marine brigadier was like a force of nature. There was no guiding him, no changing his path once he had it in mind to go a certain way. And as for Lymon…
Helen Albo could reach him here, but no one else, and she had a list, a very short list, of who he would be willing to talk to.
The list did not include Cynthia Lymon. Especially it did not include Cynthia Lymon. That insufferable bitch was becoming more and more of a headache with her demands…especially her demands that he make himself available to her at all times, and that he relieve Ramsey and take personal command of the MIEU. He was beginning to think that the billions of newdollars she’d first promised him back on Earth could not possibly be worth this God-awful nagging.
She had a call in to him now, he noticed. When he closed his eyes and entered the noumenon, a call-waiting light flashed at the edge of his mind’s-eye vision, with her name attached.
Well, let her flash.
Whether she knew it or not, he was still on her side, and working for her interests. Right now, the important thing was to salvage something of value for the MIEU to take back to Earth. They had the N’mah nanotechnique, and that was worth a lot. Better, though, would be the technology that operated the stargates, or a working Xul starship drive, or Xul weaponry. If he was able to secure anything like that, he could write his own ticket with PanTerra.
And after that, he would be rich enough to write his own ticket with the entire damned planet Earth.
The problem was that all of those possible windfall discoveries—stargate operation, starship drive, or advanced weaponry—were locked away onboard the Xul ship. And Marine Brigadier General T. J. Ramsey was planning on springing an ambush that would ensure the Xul vessel’s complete destruction.
Something had to be done, and fast. Something other than relieving the Marine CO. Much as he would like to do it, Dominick did recognize that Ramsey had a way of making things happen…and he had serious doubts about whether Ramsey’s Marines would obey an Army general with the same verve and élan that they obeyed Ramsey.
Damn the man, anyway. And damn his jarheads. They were very good at breaking things, but not as good at securing them. There had to be a way to get them to capture the Xul ship instead of destroying it out of hand.
He opened his implant’s communications function, thought-clicking on Ramsey’s address listing.
General Ramsey
Combat Command Center
UFR/USS Chapultepec
1755 hours, Shipboard time
Ramsey, too, had gone back on board ship, returning to the Chapultepec to better coordinate the offloading of the TRAPs they would be needing, as well as the special weaponry. When the call from Dominick came through, Ramsey was in a noumenal planning discussion with his senior staff and the Navy.
“I really question the idea of using one of the robot freighters as a missile,” Admiral Harris said. “We don’t have time to offload more than a fraction of the supplies. We can’t afford to ditch one third of this expedition’s consumables!”
“I believe we can, Admiral,” Ramsey replied. “When we planned for this expedition, we weren’t counting on finding food and water out here. The Wheel, so far as we knew then, was uninhabited—or might have been inhabited by critters so different from us in body chemistry that we couldn’t use their food.”
“We can’t,” Captain Louis Howard, the Battalion Medical Officer, said. “We can’t survive on N’mah foods. The biochemistry is different.”
Ramsey had downloaded a report on the subject earlier. Certain molecules necessary for life were not symmetrical, but came in what were known as isomers. The sugar humans got energy from in food was what was known as a right-handed sugar—that was where the word “dextrose” came from, in fact. Left-handed sugars would pass right through the human digestive system untouched. The same was true of amino acids. Humans required left-handed amino acids in their food; the right-handed isomer was useless.
As it happened, N’mah biochemistry was based on right-handed sugars, but also on right-handed amino acids. Essentially, that meant their food tasted okay, and provided short-term energy…but that humans would starve to death if they tried it as a long-term, steady diet.
Ramsey remembered a line downloaded from Berossus: This Being in the daytime used to converse with men; but took no food at that season; and he gave them an insight into letters and sciences, and every kind of art.
That “took no food” had been a loudly shouted clue that Man’s alien benefactors didn’t possess the same biochemistry as humans. The An were enough like humans in their biochemistry that the two could eat one another’s food. Indeed, human survivors from the trade mission on Ishtar had survived on local foods out in the hills for ten years, and when the An had colonized Earth, they’d survived for centuries on the “sacrifices” of native grain and animals. But the N’mah chemistry was different.
But not, Ramsey thought, too different. “Actually, we have enough food to supplement the diet,” he said. “Dr. Howard? Check me on this. We could take on board enough N’mah food to give our people something to chew on, but the amino problem could be held at bay with supplements.”
“Yes, that would work,” the medical officer said.
“Besides, we only need enough for however long we stay in Sirius space. On the return, we’ll all be in cybehibe.”
“Even in cybehibe,” Howard pointed out, “our bodies keep replacing wornout cells and tissue. We need food during hibernation, especially amino acids, which go into making up the proteins we need to sustain life. That’s why we have those supplements along! But…in general, you’re right.”
“And if necessary,” Ramsey added, “we go on short rations. It can be done.”
“But…smashing the Xul ship with one of our starships,” Harris said. “That’s kind of expensive for an anti-ship missile, isn’t it?”
“And just how damned expensive does it become if they get through to Earth?” He paused as the alert for the implant call from Dominick came through. “Hold it a second, people,” he said. “I need to take this.”
Damn. He’d not deliberately excluded the Army mission commander from his deliberations with Harris and the others. Not exactly. But if Dominick had learned he’d been planning the upcoming battle without him, there’d be hell to pay.
“Yes, General. I was just going to flag you.”
“Oh? About what?”
“We’re putting together some ideas for the assault on the Xul ship.”
“Well, I’ve been having some ideas too, General. I wonder…can we possibly plan on capturing that vessel, instead of destroying it?”
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The question stunned Ramsey. He was glad the noumenon wasn’t revealing his facial expression.
“General Dominick…that is the most ragged-assed sorry excuse for an idea I have heard in a long time.”
“Hear me out…”
“Is this about some deal you have with PanTerra?” Ramsey demanded. “I know Lymon is hot to corner the market on alien high-tech. But do you have any idea—”
“Profit is important, General. But this is something even you should be thinking about. What if there are prisoners—human prisoners—onboard that vessel?”
That stopped Ramsey. The question hadn’t yet come up during his discussions with the others and, frankly, he’d not stopped to think about it.
“General, that seems most unlikely.”
“Is it? The images we have of the Isis…that Xul ship just seemed to swallow them. Maybe they’re still on board. You Marines are the ones always harping about never leaving a man behind.”
Ramsey was stunned first, then furiously angry. Dominick was using that centuries-old covenant to manipulate him, and Ramsey did not like being manipulated.
“General, I’ll remind you that that happened in August of 2148…almost twenty-two years ago. Just what are the chances that those people are still alive?”
“I have no idea, General. You tell me.”
“I can’t, sir, and you know it. Nobody can.”
“Our orders include verifying that there are no survivors of the Wings of Isis.”
“In the Sirius system,” Ramsey added. “Why would the Xul keep 245 humans alive onboard ship for that long?”
“Who knows? They’re aliens, damn it. Anything is possible.”
“It’s also possible that the Xul will turn out to be stuffed purple bunnies who surrender when we open fire on them, but I’m not taking any bets on that happening. I find it much more likely that they offloaded any prisoners they might have taken at that planet Cassius recorded…or taken them off to another star system entirely. Nor do we know if this is the same Xul ship that took the Isis. We have absolutely no reason to think any of our people are still onboard that vessel.”
“And absolutely no reason to think they are not.”
Ramsey sighed. There was no way to win this argument. Technically, Dominick was right. The Marines were here for several key reasons—to investigate the Sirius Gate and secure it for further study, or else to destroy it in the event that it posed a threat to Earth’s safety; to learn more about the events that had led to the Wings of Isis being captured or destroyed, especially in regard to the ship that had emerged to take the Isis; and to rescue any among Isis’s crew who might still be alive.
What made things tough was the priority of those orders. Earth’s security, obviously, came first. There were fifty-some billion people on Earth, and there was no way to measure those lives against the lives of the 245 members of Isis’s crew both fairly and rationally. The MIEU’s mission orders were most specific on that point. Earth’s security came first. If events had transpired in such a way that Ramsey had been forced to destroy the Sirius Star Gate and the ten thousand N’mah living there in order to save Earth, he would have done so, without hesitation.
But there was a damned big gray area here, and no way to be completely safe, when it came to Earth’s security, or completely sure, when it came to the Isis crew. He needed to find a reasonably safe middle ground.
But where the hell was that?
He thought for a moment. They’d already discussed several plans. Maybe using a freighter with an antimatter war-head on board was just a little on the side of overkill.
But they would have to be sure.
“General,” he said at last, “Earth’s safety comes first. You know that. But we may possibly have a viable plan that’ll at least let us find out about the Isis and her crew.”
“That’s all I’m looking for, General,” Dominick replied.
Like hell, you bastard, Ramsey thought. You’re looking for a way to capture Xul hardware.
But even that was legitimate. If Operation Battlespace brought home some tech that would give Earth a chance against the Xul in the future—a working interstellar drive, say?—then almost any risk would be worth it.
If that risk didn’t extend to Earth’s teeming billions.
“I suggest you join our discussion, General,” Ramsey said. “C’mon in and join the crowd.” He shifted channels. “Okay, I’m back, people. I’m tabling the idea of a freighter with an AM warhead. General Dominick has made some very good points about that.
“So, as I see it now, to do this right we’re going to need an old-fashioned Marine CBSS….”
Corporal Garroway
TRAP 1-2
Sirius Stargate
2345 hours, Shipboard time
Once again, Garroway was strapped into place in the sardine-can closeness of a TRAP packed with a section of twenty Marines. Once again, it was the waiting…and waiting…and waiting.
“Buddha’s hairy balls!” Womicki said. “How much longer are they going to keep us in here?”
“As long as they have to, Womicki,” Dunne replied. “Now shut your trap and vacseal it!”
The stress within the section had been steadily growing. They’d crammed into the TRAP almost four hours ago. A four-hour wait was nothing if you were going somewhere…but they were just sitting here, and had been the whole time, adrift some ten kilometers above the surface of the Wheel.
At least, that’s what they’d been told. As usual, they did not have a visual feed from outside. “You’d be too damned busy gawking at the sights,” Dunne had explained. “You start lollygagging like a goddamned tourist and then where would you be?”
“The probe hasn’t returned,” Major Warhurst’s voice told them. “It should have been back twenty minutes ago. I think we can assume that means action is imminent.”
Garroway drew a deep breath. He was glad the major was listening in, though he knew that would put a damper on the conversation. It meant that the battalion CO cared about them.
And right now, that counted for a hell of a lot.
General Ramsey
Command Control Center
UFR/USS Chapultepec
2345 hours, Shipboard time
Ramsey could see what was going on. From his noumenal vantage point, in fact, he was drifting in space some twenty kilometers from the Wheel. The vessels of the MIEU were in place, positioned in a circle around the Wheel’s center far enough out that they were out of the reach of the gravitationally strange space within the Gate’s central opening, their spacing staggered in such a way that no ship had its drive venturi aimed at any other ship. All main drive thrusters were aimed at the center of the Wheel, however.
An old, old saying within the Corps had it that the Marines always did more with less. Mass restrictions dictated that MIEU-1 couldn’t bring its own artillery, so the seven remaining vessels of the fleet were being drafted into service.
Seeing his battle plan laid out like this was less than reassuring. Over the past several days, Ramsey had become used to seeing the Wheel hanging in space, a black wedding band adrift against the stars. It was easy, however, to lose sight of just how big the thing was.
Chapultepec was the largest of the fleet’s ships with a length-overall of 622 meters, pencil-slender behind the 100-meter spread of her forward R-M tank and shield. Ranger was a hair shorter, at 604 meters, but with a larger and deeper reaction-mass dome. The three robot transports, bulkier and more massive than the manned vessels, were each 570 meters long, while New Chicago had loa of 510 meters. Even the little Daring was still over three times the length of a football field, longer, in fact, than the old supercarriers that had been the mainstay of the U.S. wet-Navy two centuries before.
They were, in fact, the largest manned structures capable of moving under their own power in human history. Seen against the backdrop of the Wheel, however, even Chapultepec looked like a metallic child’s toy. The Sirius Gate spanne
d over twenty kilometers, almost forty times Chapultepec’s length. From out here, the Marine interstellar transport looked tiny and harmlessly insignificant.
Minutes slipped past, one following the next. How much longer?
Damn it, it should not be much longer, one way or another. Well over forty minutes earlier, a recon AI, another SF/A-2 Starhawk outfitted with a Cassius download had passed through the gate. The idea was to have it emerge from the Cluster Gate, decelerate for ten minutes while noting the position of the Xul ship and any other pertinent tactical data, then accelerate back through the gate with the information.
That Starhawk should have returned to the Sirian side of the gate half an hour ago. The fact that it had not was, itself, a pertinent datum. A malfunction or some other unforeseen occurrence was always a possibility, of course, but likeliest was that the Xul vessel was approaching the gate, had noted the Starhawk’s emergence and had swatted it like a fly.
According to N’mah data, the Xul possessed a type of magnetic shielding as a defense against particle beam attacks. The focused output of seven starships, however, ought to be enough to overwhelm their screens.
Ought to be, There was still so much about this new enemy that was unknown.
He wished the recon A-2 had returned. Waiting like this, with no information at all about what was happening on the other side…damn it! How much longer? He checked his implant time sense. Past midnight, ship’s time, not that schedules out here paid any attention to day or night.
Perhaps they should try again, another probe. Perhaps…
Something was emerging from the Gate.
It happened quickly, far too quickly for merely human response. The Xul ship, needle-slim forward, but with asymmetrical bulges and sponsons aft, slipped out of nothingness a bit off-center within the Wheel’s embrace. One instant there was nothing; the next, the Xul vessel was growing out of empty space faster than the eye could follow.
But human eyes and human reactions were not the first line of defense. Sissy—the Combat Command Network linking the ships of the MIEU—together with Cassius as the tactical component, reacted at computer speeds and efficiency, correcting the seven ships’ aim and triggering the starship drives simultaneously. The Xul vessel was struck by seven streams of star-hot plasma.
