Not that Hal actually “felt” anything… Hal was a bio-computer and therefore had no “feelings,” per se. He had always held “controlling interest” in all of their endeavors for the Confederacy prior to and during the war, but Hal had always consulted Diet on most major decisions before acting, hadn’t he? Diet had guided the computer in determining “what” should be done, and Hal took care of doing it.
Now it felt like Hal didn’t need him any more, and Diet felt the loss of camaraderie between them on a deeply personal level. At the same time, Diet knew that if there was a wall between them now, he had built it himself. Hal was merely giving him space because he was the one who had shut off communication between them, while he nursed his grudge and reveled in his emotional hissy-fit.
But damn it, Hal had done a couple of things that Diet found inexcusable. First he had divulged Diet’s identity to Kalis, knowing full well that Diet held that secret as sacrosanct, and he’d neglected to thoroughly research all of the potential after-effects of brain biopsy surgery, which still plagued Diet with horrendous headaches on occasion. Yes, they were becoming fewer and fewer as time went by, but Hal hadn’t delved deeply enough to discover the potential for residual pain before insisting Diet donate some brain tissue for some sort of off-the-wall scheme Diet still didn’t fully understand. Or had he? Was it possible that Hal had fully understood the potential for all that pain, yet determined the need great enough for Diet to suffer it? Was it really needed that badly, or was it just that Hal wasn’t capable of understanding, and thus care, about Diet’s pain — as he never suffered pain himself?
Whatever the case, Diet wasn’t happy… he wasn’t happy with Hal, nor with himself. Diet, as a human being, had every right to resent Hal’s actions and attitudes. Hal, as a thoroughly non-human sentient entity, was mostly oblivious to most human behaviors triggered at the emotional level.
How could Hal truly understand emotions when he didn’t have any himself? Without a common frame of reference, wouldn’t that be akin to trying to explain colors to someone blind from birth? Had all of Hal’s previous expressions of caring and friendship merely been mimicry of expected behavior observed in positive human interactions? On an intellectual level, Diet fully understood how computers worked — they executed relatively simple written instructions formed into colossally large, complex programs. Diet remembered a line from an ancient 2-D comedy about robotic intelligence that said:
“It's a machine. It doesn't get pissed off. It doesn't get happy. It doesn't get sad. It doesn't laugh at your jokes... IT JUST RUNS PROGRAMS!”
Diet suddenly felt a gigantic hole form inside him, like his best friend had just died. No, not died exactly… just the realization that the being he’d thought of as his best friend all this time — wasn’t. Without emotions, Hal couldn’t really be a friend to anyone. He wasn’t capable of it. Everything was logic-driven. Diet felt, well… alone… more alone than he’d felt in years.
“Hal, I’m not really accomplishing anything worthwhile here. I think I’ll go back to Waston.”
Um… all right, Diet. Whatever makes you happy. I’ll see you, when you get there.
* * * *
The Planetoid Discol, City of Watson
May, 3865
“Madam President,” said Secretary of Defense, Douglas Campbell, “I’d like you to meet our secret weapon that we told you about… Vice Admiral John Masterson.”
Besides Campbell, gathered before the president’s desk in the newly remodeled Oval Office was Admiral Simon Bradley, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Enrico Melendez, Chief of Fleet Operations and Vice Admiral John “Bat” Masterson, who was Melendez’ Chief of Staff and resident witch doctor.
President McAllister rose from her chair and extended a hand over her desk towards the young vice admiral. “Vice Admiral Masterson,” the president said pleasantly, as Bat took her extended hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I’ve never met a real honest-to-goodness clairvoyant before. It’s quite an honor.”
Bat colored charmingly and stammered, “Madam President, I’m sure that these three esteemed gentlemen could not possibly have been so seriously remiss in their duties as to neglect telling you, I don’t believe in any of their silly sixth-sense fairytales. If anything, perhaps I just process data a bit differently than most, that’s all.”
Waving the four to chairs, President McAllister sat and continued, “No need to be modest, Bat. I hear that even Marrot became convinced of your unique abilities, and that was no mean feat, I assure you. That idiot had his head so far up the Consortium’s ass, I’m surprised we’re not all wearing Confederate uniforms and saluting the Stars & Bars right now.”
“They had him by the short-hairs from the time he was a freshman congressman, Madam President," Bat replied. “He was certainly in illustrious company, as the Consortium virtually took over the entire government, with J.P. Aneke calling the shots for all of us.”
“Yes, a pity about Mr. Aneke’s unfortunate assassination,” responded the president. “I’d have dearly loved to have had the opportunity to sic Fred Danforth on him, and then dangle him by his balls from the top of the Congressional Rotunda.”
Bat grinned as all of the other men in the room winced noticeably at the horrific thought. Bat liked this woman already!
“So,” the president continued. “After combing through all of that alien wreckage and your observations of the alien prisoners, what is it that your nonexistent sixth-sense is telling you that we should be doing, that we aren’t already?”
“Madam President,” Bat responded. “We need to expand our industrial capacity by a factor of at least ten, and possibly by hundreds.”
The president wasn’t quite sure what she expected to hear, but that was certainly towards the bottom of the list of what she wanted to hear. “What makes you say that, Admiral?” she asked.
“The aliens hit us with over a thousand warships of approximately corvette class… just below destroyer standards,” said Bat. “Think of the manufacturing requirements just to build that many warships… and that’s just a single drop in the ocean when compared to everything they already have.”
That statement startled everyone in the room. “Explain,” said President McAllister.
“Think of the scale we used to launch our first assault on Ginia, Madam President,” Bat replied. “We sent three full fleets against a single target, when our best estimates at the time said the Confederates had only a single fleet with which to defend the entire Confederacy. Think of the size of your initial fleet that was intended to mount our second assault on Ginia, before the Stillman raid destroyed 15 carriers and siphoned off over one-third of your remaining forces to guard against any similar hit and run incursions. What were the percentages of our total fleet strength that we dedicated to those assaults at the time? 20%… 30%?”
The president glanced towards SecDef Campbell and he replied, “Yes, 20-30% sounds about right. Are you saying that over a thousand warships were just 20-30% of their available capacity, Bat? They have almost 40 times that many at their forward base now.”
“No, sir. They don’t think like we do… more like a half-percent, if even that.”
“What is it that makes you think they might have 200,000, or more, of those small warships, Bat?” asked Admiral Bradley.
“They’re predators, Admiral… they kill to live and generally get along with others of their kind the way that male predators everywhere do,” said Masterson. “Even with hypnotics governing their general pecking order, whenever higher ranks are out of direct sight, turf wars and contentions for dominance are quite likely to be the norm. In an intelligent species, their genetically ingrained proclivity towards achieving dominance through violence would very likely cause their version of political infighting to manifest itself quite literally, especially along the territorial borders between their various regional governors of essentially equal rank.”
“You mean they’re fighting amongst themselves?�
�� asked Melendez.
“I’d say almost constantly, Admiral. In fact, I’d say it’s very likely that only the tiniest percentage of their total military strength was allocated towards their expansionary attack on Minnos. The rest are probably in reserve, guarding them from each other.”
“What about that buildup of almost 40,000 warships at their forward base the Confederates are reporting?” asked Campbell.
“They got their noses bloodied badly at Minnos,” said Bat. “It must have come as a hell of a shock to them. But they now have a much better idea of what they’re up against and are withdrawing forces equilaterally from deep within all their territories to maintain their internal balance of power, yet accumulate a concentration of forces they feel adequate for dealing with us — while they develop new weapons capable of taking on fighters and heavy cruisers.”
“So you think that they’re trying to upgrade their weaponry, based on what they ran into at Minnos?” asked the president.
“Desperately, Madam President,” replied Bat. “And there is a very good chance that their hypnotic-based social structure will allow them to apply a great deal more of their incredibly extensive manufacturing capabilities towards weapons development and production than ours can. They won’t be manufacturing washing machines, toasters and video games to keep their consumers happy. The mere idea of hunting humanity will have probably drive their entire population into near-sexual ecstasy.”
“You’re sure they use hypnotics to keep their social structure from imploding?” asked Admiral Bradley.
“It’s the only thing logic dictates might work, Admiral,” said Bat. “That, or something very like it, would be an absolute necessity for a race of predators to progress as far as interstellar flight without self-destructing.”
“What makes you think their manufacturing capacity is really that large?” asked President McAllister.
“I’ve been studying the habits of Old-Earth feline predators and comparing them to those of the transplanted species cloned and introduced on human planets since initial colonization of our worlds in this sector,” said Masterson. “Invariably, the alpha-male in the pride runs off any sexually mature younger males, prior to the pride’s females coming into heat. No competition for breeding rights allowed. These younger males often wander together for companionship for a while, as they look for hunting territory not already scent-marked by another dominant male. But as they mature further, the inevitable quest for dominance splinters the group into individual males wandering farther and farther afield, in search of their futures. Some find other prides having aging alpha-males and successfully challenge for dominance of the pride, displacing the elderly male to a lonely death as his hunting abilities fail over time.
“The common thread is that beta-males invariably explore and expand the race’s territory, taking over weakening prides and reinvigorating them, or creating new prides through acquisition of females from various possible sources and circumstances,” continued Bat. “Constant expansion into virgin territories and discovering new sources of prey are universal constants in these species. The drive to procreate and establish their own family units can be no less in our adversaries, for all their intelligence.”
“So you’re saying that they have expanded further and have more planetary manufactories to draw from?”
“Yes, Madam President, that’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“What exactly are you basing that assumption on, Admiral?”
“Madam President, you were a career Fleet officer… how long do you think it would take us to build 40,000 corvettes? Considering a ship’s nominal service-life, how many would we have to begin replacing from sheer age, long before we reached 40,000? Could we ever reach 40,000 combat-ready warships of any class, before our entire manufacturing output was involved in merely replacing those we’d already worn out? Now ask yourself the same questions using 200,000 or 300,000 as a benchmark.”
Oh, shit.
* * * *
Chapter-23
You can thank God that twenty years from now, when you're sitting around the fireside with your grandson on your knee and he asks you what you did in the war, you won't have to shift him to the other knee, cough, and say, “I shoveled shit in Louisiana.” -- General George S. Patton
June, 3865
Everything was finally ready. The latest shipments of medium-yield, ship-killer missiles had been stored. Vice Admiral Ramiro Ortega’s two task forces arrived to assume the defense of Minnos, and the big day had arrived. On June 16, 3865 the five Alliance / Confederate / Sextus combined fleets cast off and departed the Minnos system… en route to history.
In late June, the combined fleets emerged in a barren star system three light-years distant from the target, to rendezvous with a fully functional refueling station the Confederates had established in orbit about a gas giant there. The Confederate Intelligence vessel CSS Wraith had returned from the target system a few hours earlier and delivered their latest intelligence, but, of course, she was gone again before the fleets’ arrival. As the combined fleets topped off their fuel tanks, Admiral Kalis convened a final face-to-face meeting with his senior admirals aboard his flagship, the newly converted missile-battleship CSS Malice, to receive a final situation report on the target system from Confederate Vice Admiral Richard Bonhoeffer, of Confederate Intelligence.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the situation in the target system remains much the same as in the last intelligence briefing you received at Minnos, except that the rate of enemy reinforcements spiked a bit with the arrival of twice as many additional warships over the past month as had been the previous norm,” said Bonhoeffer. “As of approximately 36 hours ago, enemy strength was just over 43,000 warships, along with approximately 80,000 transport vessels that come and go at a prodigious rate.
“The enemy has recently completed construction on what appears to be a major supply base on the planet’s surface, marked target Zebra-6 on the planetary scan records. Three large ground force bases have been built on the planet for housing and supply of their assault forces. Those are marked Tango-3, Red-4 and Michael-5. The enemy has also began construction of several dozen settlements scattered around the planet that appear to be colonization efforts, so it looks like the neighbors are moving in to stay. Those are also marked on diagrams contained, along with everything else we have, on the data cubes in front of you.”
“43,000… that’s just about two missiles each, with the 90,000 we’ll have with us,” remarked Confederate Admiral Eileen Thorn. “Guess that means we’ll need to conserve as much as possible.”
“Yes,” replied Fleet Admiral Kalis. “We’re going to have to get closer than I’d like before launching, to ensure as many single missile kills as possible.”
“On the surface, even with those additional warships, it doesn’t seem necessary to change our basic strategy much,” observed Confederate Admiral Ben Stillman.
“No,” replied Admiral Kalis. “The largest of our warships the enemy has yet seen was the single heavy cruiser, USS Alexander, at Minnos, so our battleships and battlecruisers should come something of a shock to them. The main thing is we have to guard our drive tubes religiously. Those seem to be the only areas on our capital ships and cruisers that are vulnerable to those little 3-gigawatt popguns the cats use. Remember, their weapons might be little, but we can’t get overconfident because they have a God-awful LOT of them. If we can keep them in front of us where our armor is, we should be relatively safe and have a field day, but if they manage to get behind us and swarm in large numbers, we could be in trouble. Any other questions or comments?”
“Not that I’m complaining, but I’d give a year’s pay to know exactly how you Rebs got all of this information without getting your asses fried,” said Alliance Vice Admiral J.T. Turner.
Kalis just grinned and Bonhoeffer smiled, responding, “Need-to-know, Admiral… suffice it to say that however we got it, it is accurate.”
“Oh, I have absolutely
no doubts about that, Admiral,” responded Turner. “After all the rabbits you guys managed to pull out of the hat during the war, I have no doubts whatsoever. After those experiences, I’m damned glad to be going into battle with you, instead of against you for a change. That didn’t seem healthy at the time.”
That telling comment elicited a chuckle from the assembled Confederates. Kalis paused a moment to see if anyone else had anything to say. When none volunteered anything further, Kalis finished with, “All right then, ladies and gentlemen. Good luck, Godspeed and good hunting. Dismissed.”
* * * *
Kalis called Stillman aside as the other admirals were filing out and asked with a sly smile, “How’s your new flagship working out for you, Ben?”
“You could have warned me, Admiral.”
Kalis feigned innocence. “Why, what’s wrong with Defiant, Ben?”
“Nothing is wrong with Defiant. It’s just that… um… Damn it, Admiral, you should have warned me about her.”
“Her?”
“Don’t play innocent with me, Admiral. You know damned well which her, I’m talking about!”
“Dorothy Fletcher?”
Ben just rolled his eyes and shook his head slightly at Kalis’ feigned ignorance.
“Why, Ben,” Kalis replied innocently. “How was I supposed to know you hadn’t heard about Dorothy Fletcher? She’s literally a legend throughout the entire 1st Fleet.”
“I have no doubt… but you forget that I’ve never been in 1st Fleet,” Stillman moaned. “I’ve been in 2nd Fleet, since before the Confederacy was even formed.”
“She giving you a hard time, Ben?”
Ben snorted. “Hard time… an interesting choice of words there, Admiral. Let’s say, discomforting. If I ever said that she gave me a ‘hard’ anything, no one would ever let me live it down.”
Defying the Prophet: A Military Space Opera (The Sentience Trilogy Book 2) Page 21
