by David Weber
“You think it’s really as grim as Brashieel seems to think?”
Colin looked up as Horus’s recorded message ended. Even for an Imperial hypercom, forty-odd light-years was a bit much for two-way conversations.
“I know not,” Jiltanith mused. Unlike his other guests, she was present in the flesh. Very present, he thought, hiding a smile as he remembered their reunion. Now she flipped a mental command into the holo unit and replayed the final portion of Horus’s interview with Brashieel.
“I know not,” she repeated. “Certes Brashieel believes it so, but look thou, my Colin, though he saith such things, yet hath he held converse with ‘Hursag and Father. Moreover, ’twould seem he hath understood what they have said unto him. His pain seemeth real enow, but ’tis understanding—of a sort, at the least—which wakes it.”
“You’re saying what he thinks and says are two different things?” Hector MacMahan spoke through his holo image from Sevrid’s command deck. He looked uncomfortable as a planetoid’s CO, for he still regarded himself as a ground-pounder. But, then, Sevrid was a ground-pounder’s dream, and she had the largest crew of any unit in the fleet, after Fabricator, for reasons which made sense to most. They made sense to Colin and Jiltanith, anyway, which was what mattered, and this conversation was very pertinent to them.
“Nay, Hector. Say rather that divergence hath begun ’twixt what he doth think and what he doth believe, but that he hath not seen it so.”
“You may be right, ’Tanni,” Ninhursag said slowly. Her image sat beside Hector’s as her body sat next to his. And, come to think of it, Colin thought, they seemed to be found together a lot these days.
“When Brashieel and I talked,” Ninhursag continued, choosing her words with care, “the impression I got of him was … well, innocence, if that’s not too silly-sounding. I don’t mean goody-goody innocence; maybe the word should really be naivete. He’s very, very bright, by human standards. Very quick and very well-educated, but only in his speciality. As for the rest, well, it’s more like an indoctrination than an education, as if someone cordoned off certain aspects of his worldview, labeled them ‘off-limits’ so firmly he’s not even curious about them. It’s just the way things are; the very possibility of questioning them, much less changing them, doesn’t exist.”
“Hm.” Cohanna rubbed an eyebrow and frowned. “You may have something, ’Hursag. I hadn’t gotten around to seeing it that way, but then I always was a mechanic at heart.” Jiltanith frowned a question, and Cohanna grinned. “Sorry. I mean I was always more interested in the physical life processes than the mental. A blind spot of my own. I tend to look for physical answers first and psychological ones second … or third. What I meant, though, is that ’Hursag’s right. If Brashieel were human—which, of course, he isn’t—I’d have to say he’d been programmed pretty carefully.”
“Programmed.” Jiltanith tasted the word thoughtfully. “Aye, mayhap ’twas the word I sought. Yet ’twould seem his programming hath its share o’ holes.”
“That’s the problem with programming,” Cohanna agreed. “It can only accommodate data known to the programmer. Hit its subject with something totally outside its parameters, and he does one of three things: cracks up entirely; rejects the reality and refuses to confront it; or—” she paused meaningfully “—grapples with it and, in the process, breaks the program.”
“And you think that’s what’s happening with Brashieel?” Colin mused.
“Well, at the risk of sounding overly optimistic, it may be. Brashieel’s a resilient lad, or he’d’ve curled up and died as soon as he realized the bogey men had him. The fact that he didn’t says a really astounding amount about the toughness of his psyche. He was actually curious about us, and that says even more. Now, though, what we’re asking him to believe simultaneously upsets his entire worldview and threatens his race with extinction.
“We’ve had a bit of experience facing that kind of terror ourselves, and some of us haven’t handled it very well. It’s worse for him; his species has built an entire society on millions of years of fear. I’d say there’s a pretty good chance he’ll snap completely when he realizes just how bad things really are from the Achuultani perspective. If he makes it through the next few weeks, though, he may find out he’s even tougher and more flexible than he thought and actually decide Horus was telling him the truth.”
“And how much good will that do?” Tamman’s holo image asked. “He was only a fire control officer aboard a scout. Not exactly a mover and shaker in a society as caste-bound as his.”
“True,” Colin agreed, “but his reaction is the only yardstick we have for how his entire race will react if we really can stop them. Of course, what we really need is a larger sample. Which, Hector,” he looked at MacMahan, “is why you and Sevrid will do exactly what we’ve discussed, won’t you?”
“Yes, but I don’t have to like it.”
Colin winced slightly at the sour response, but the important thing was that Hector understood why Sevrid must stay out of the fighting. She would wait out the engagement, stealthed at a safe distance, then close in to board any wrecked or damaged ships she could find.
“That reminds me, ’Hanna,” he said, turning back to the biosciences officer. “What’s the progress on our capture field?”
“We’re in good shape,” Cohanna assured him. “Took us a while to realize it, but it turns out a simple focused magnetic field is the answer.”
“Ah? Oh! Metal bones.”
“Exactly. They’re not all that ferrous, but a properly focused field can lock their skeletons. Muscles, too. Have to secure them some other way pretty quick—interrupting the blood flow to the brain is a bad idea—but it should work just fine. Geran and Caitrin are turning them out aboard Fabricator now.”
“Good! We need prisoners, damn it. We may not be able to do anything with them right away, but somewhere down the road we’re either going to have to talk to the Nest Lord or kill his ass. In some ways, I’d rather waste him and be done with it, but that’s the nasty side of me talking.”
“Aye, art ever over gentle with thy foes,” Jiltanith said sourly, but then her face softened. “And rightly so, for where would I be hadst thou not been thy gentle self when first we met? Nay, my love. I do not say I share thy tenderness for these our foes, yet neither will I contest thy will. And mayhap, in time, will I come to share thy thoughts as well. Stranger things have chanced, when all’s said.”
Colin reached out and squeezed her hand gently. He knew how much it cost her to say that … and how much more it cost to mean it.
“Well, then!” he said more briskly. “We seem to be in pretty good shape there; let’s hope we’re in equally good shape everywhere. Horus and Gerald are making lots better progress than I expected upgrading Earth’s defenses. They may actually have a chance of holding even if we lose it out here, as long as we can take out half or more of the main body in the process.”
“A chance,” MacMahan agreed. He did not add “but not a very good one.”
“Yeah.” Colin’s tone answered the unspoken qualifier, and he tugged on his nose in a familiar gesture. “Well, we’ll just have to see to it they don’t have to try. What’s our situation, Vlad?”
“It could be better, but it might be worse.” Chernikov’s image looked weary, though less so than when the resurrected Imperial Guard left Bia. “We have lost eight units: one Vespa-class, which constitutes a relatively minor loss to our ship-to-ship capability; one Asgerd; and six Trosans. That leaves ten Trosans, two too severely damaged for Fabricator to make combat-capable. I recommend that they be dispatched directly to Bia under computer control.”
“I hate to do it,” Colin sighed, “but I think you’re right. What about the rest of us?”
“The remaining eight Trosans are all combat-ready at a minimum of ninety percent of capability. Of our remaining fifty-one Asgerds, Two’s damage is most severe, but Baltan and I believe we can make almost all of it good. After her, Emp
eror Herdan is worst hurt, followed by Royal Birhat, but Birhat should be restored to full capability within two months. I estimate that Herdan and Two will be at ninety-six and ninety-four percent capability, respectively, by the time the main body arrives.”
“Hum. Should we transfer your people to undamaged ships, ’Tanni?”
“Nay. ’Twere better to face the fray ’board ships whose ways we know, even though somewhat hurt, than to unsettle all upon the eve o’battle.”
“I think so, too. But if Vlad and Baltan can’t get ’em up to at least ninety percent, your ass is changing ships, young lady!”
“Ha! Neither young nor lady am I, and thou’lt find it most difficult to remove me ’gainst my will, Your Majesty!”
“I don’t get no respect,” Colin sighed. Then he shook himself. “And Dahak, Vlad?”
“We will do our best, Colin,” Vlad said more somberly, and the mood of the meeting darkened. “Those two hits he took on the way out were almost on top of one another and did extraordinarily severe damage. Nor does his age help; were he one of the newer ships, we could simply plug components from Fabricator’s spares into his damaged systems. As it is, we must rebuild his Rho quadrants almost from scratch, and there is collateral damage in Sigma-One, Lambda-Four and Pi-Three. At best, we may restore him to eighty-five percent capability.”
“Dahak? Do you concur?” Colin asked.
“I believe Senior Fleet Captain Chernikov underestimates himself, but his analysis is essentially correct. We may achieve eighty-seven or even eighty-eight percent capability; we will not achieve more in the time available.”
“Damn. I should’ve cut and run sooner.”
“Nay,” Jiltanith said. “Thou didst troll them in most shrewdly, my Colin, and so learned far more than ever we hoped.”
“Her Majesty is correct,” Dahak put in. “The effectiveness of our energy weapons against heavy Aku’Ultan units has now been demonstrated, and, coupled with Operation Laocoon, makes ultimate victory far more likely. Without Volley Fire, we could not accurately have assessed that effectiveness.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Colin said, and he did. But knowing made him feel no better about getting their irreplaceable flagship—and his friend, damn it!—shot up. “Okay, I guess that just about covers it. We can—”
“Nay, Colin,” Jiltanith cut in. “There remaineth still the matter of the ship from which thou’lt lead us.”
Colin noted the dangerous tilt of her chin and felt an irrational stab of anger. He had the authority—technically—to slap her down, but he couldn’t. It would be capricious, which was one reason he was angry he couldn’t, but, worse, it would be wrong. ’Tanni was his second-in-command, both entitled and required to disagree when she thought he was wrong; she was also his wife.
“I’ll be aboard Dahak,” he said flatly. “By myself.”
“Now I say thou shalt not,” she began hotly, then stopped, throttling her anger as he had his. But tension crackled between them, and when he glanced around the holo-image faces of his closest advisors he saw a high degree of discomfort in their expressions. He also saw a lot of support for ’Tanni.
“Look,” he said, “I have to be here. We win or lose on the basis of how well Dahak can run the rest of the flotilla, and communications are going to be hairy enough without me being on a ship with a different time dilation effect.”
It was a telling argument, and he saw its weight darken Jiltanith’s eyes, though she did not relent. Relativity wasn’t a factor under Enchanach Drive, since the ship in question didn’t actually “move” in normal space terms at all. Unfortunately, it was a factor at high sublight velocities, especially when ships might actually be moving on opposing vectors. Gross communication wasn’t too bad; there were lags, but they were bearable—for communication. But Dahak would be required to operate his uncrewed fellows’ computers as literal extensions of himself. At the very best, their tactical flexibility would be badly limited. At worst…
Colin decided—again—not to think about “at worst.”
“Anyway,” he said, “I should be as safe as anybody else.”
“Oh? Without doubt ’twas that very reasoning led thee to forbid all others to share thy duty ’board Dahak?” Jiltanith said with awful irony.
“All right, damn it, so it isn’t exactly the safest place to be! I’ve still got to be here, ’Tanni. Why should I risk anyone else?”
“Colin,” Tamman said, “’Tanni may not be your most tactful officer, but she speaks for all of us. Forgive me, Dahak—” he glanced courteously at the auxiliary interface on one bulkhead “—but you’re going to be a priority target if the Achuultani realize what’s going on.”
“I concur.”
“Thank you,” Tamman said softly. “And that’s my point, Colin. We all know how important your ability to coordinate through Dahak is, but you’re important, too. In your persona as Emperor, and as our friend, as well.”
“Tamman—” Colin broke off and stared down at his hands, then sighed. “Thank you for that—thank all of you—but the fact remains that cold, hard logic says I should be in Command One when we go in.”
“That is certainly true to a point,” Dahak said, and Jiltanith stared at the auxiliary console with betrayed eyes, “yet Senior Fleet Captain Tamman is also correct. You are important, if only as the one adult human Fleet Central will obey without question during the immense reorganization of the post-Incursion period. While Her Majesty can execute that function in the event of your death, she would be acting as regent for a minor child, not as head of state in her own right, which creates a potential for conflict.”
“Are you saying I should risk losing the battle because something might go wrong later?”
“Negative. I am simply listing counter arguments. And, in all honesty, I must add my personal concern to the list. You are my oldest friend, Colin. I do not wish you to risk your life unnecessarily.”
The computer did not often express his human feelings so frankly, and Colin swallowed unexpected emotion.
“I’m not too crazy about it myself, but I think it is necessary. Forget for a moment that we’re friends and tell me what the percentages say to do.”
There was a moment of silence—a very long moment for Dahak.
“Put that way, Colin,” he said at last, “I must concur. Your presence in Command One will increase the probability of victory by several orders.”
Jiltanith sagged, and Colin touched her hand gently in apology. She tried to smile, but her eyes were stricken, and he knew she knew. He’d ordered Dahak not to share his projection of their chance of survival with her, but she knew anyway.
“Wait.” Chernikov’s thoughtful murmur pulled all attention back to him. “We have the time and materials; let us install a mat-trans aboard Dahak.”
“A mat-trans? But that couldn’t—”
“A moment, Colin.” Dahak sounded far more cheerful. “I believe this suggestion has merit. Senior Fleet Captain Chernikov, do I correctly apprehend that you intend to install additional mat-trans stations aboard each of our crewed warships?”
“I do.”
“But the relativity aspects would make it impossible,” Colin protested. “The stations have to be synchronized.”
“Not so finely as you may believe,” Dahak said. “In practice, it would simply require that the receiving ship maintain approximately the same relativistic time. Given the number of crewed vessels available to us, it might well prove possible to select an appropriate unit. I could then transmit you to that unit in the event that Dahak’s destruction becomes probable.”
“I don’t like the idea of running away,” Colin muttered rebelliously.
“Now thou’rt childish, my Colin,” Jiltanith said firmly. “Thou knowest how feel we all towards Dahak, yet thy presence will not halt the missile or beam which would destroy him. How shall thy death make his less dreadful?”
“Her Majesty is correct,” Dahak said, equally firmly. “You would no
t refuse to evacuate via lifeboat, and there is little difference, except in that your chances of survival are many orders of probability higher via mat-trans. Please, Colin. I would feel much better if you would agree.”
Colin was stubbornly silent. Of course it was illogical, but that was part of the definition of friendship. Yet they were right. It was only the premeditation of the means whereby he would desert his friend that bothered him.
“All right,” he sighed at last. “I don’t like it, but … do it, Vlad.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The dot of Zeta Trianguli Australis burned unchanged, for the fury of its death had not yet crossed the light-years.
Senior Fleet Captain Sarah Meir, promoted when Colin evicted Dahak’s crew, sat on the planetoid Ashar’s command deck and frowned as she watched it, recalling the dark, hopeless years when she and her Terra-born fellows had fought with Nergal’s Imperials against Anu’s butchers. There was no comparison between then and now … except that the days were dark once more and hope was scarce.
Scarce, but not vanished, she reminded herself, and if Colin’s reckless battle plan shocked her, it was its very audacity which gave them a hope of victory. That, and the quality of their ships and handful of crews.
And Dahak. It always came back to Dahak, but, then, it always had. He’d stood sponsor for them all, Earth’s inheritance from the Imperium on this eve of Armageddon. It might be atavistic of her, but Dahak was their totem, and—
“Captain, we have an inbound hyper wake. A big one,” her plotting officer said, and adrenalin flushed through her system.
“Nail it down,” she said, “and fire up the hypercom.” Acknowledgments came back, and she called up Engineering. “Stand by for Enchanach Drive.”
“Yes, ma’am. Core tap nominal. We’re ready to move.”
“Stand by.” She looked back up at Plotting. “Well?”
“We’ve got an emergence, ma’am. Ninety-eight hours, about a light-month short of the vanguard’s emergence locus.”
Sarah frowned. Damned if she would’ve hypered in this close to the “monster nest-killers” the vanguard must have reported! Still, with their piddling communication range, they had to come in fairly close … and a light-month gave them plenty of time to hyper out if bad guys came at them.
