by Chris Walley
“You mean, sir, attack it?”
There was a pause. “Yes, Forester. Attack it with the intention of taking it in working order. But only after diplomacy—if I may use an old word—has failed.”
Before Corradon could continue, Clemant had spoken. “We must not underestimate the risks. We do not know what weapons they have.”
Corradon waved a hand with a hint of impatience. “Absolutely. And that is why we agree with Vero’s suggestion that we need to be in a position where, if diplomacy fails, we can move to a capture strategy instantly. Surprise may be one of the few weapons we have. We can’t squander it by summoning a council of the representatives.”
Clemant gave a slight and unenthusiastic nod.
“Exactly,” Corradon said. “Vero wants to have a second group standing by so that, if negotiation fails, they can disable this ship and prevent it from taking off. And achieve a seizure.”
“That raises a lot of issues. . . .” Merral spoke slowly, his mind struggling to cope with ideas of attack and seizure.
“Oh, indeed,” Corradon replied, and Merral marveled at how assured he appeared to be. “But we’ve read twenty-first century law—of course, the matter has not been discussed since—and that suggests that we have a legitimate right to ask for their surrender as they are on our sovereign territory.”
“I see, but respectfully, sir, there are practical issues too.”
“Oh, we know that. Vero has been working on a plan for the last few weeks. But this is where you come in.”
“I see.” Of course, Merral thought, recognizing with alarm something that had been hinted at all along.
“Yes,” said Corradon. His blue eyes seemed weary. “We want you to carry it out. To lead. That is the big gap. We have the decision, we have the equipment, to some extent we have the personnel; we even have the inklings of a strategy. But we need a leader to bring these things together.”
Merral swallowed, his mouth suddenly and unaccountably dry. “Me?”
“You. Yes, there was a unanimous feeling among the representatives that, in this respect, you are marked out as the man of the hour. That we should appoint you as captain of the FDU.”
“I am less sure, sir,” Merral replied, oddly aware of his heart beating heavily. “And surely my opinion counts?”
“Well, only to a limited extent,” Corradon countered.
“To be blunt,” Clemant added sharply, “there are precious few contenders. And we can’t risk the luxury of an experiment.”
Merral suddenly felt an irresistible urge to stand up. He rose, walked to a corner of the room, then turned and faced the two men.
“Gentlemen, I am not at all positive about this. In fact, I’m very skeptical.”
“Forester, there is no one else suitable to lead.”
“What about Vero?” Merral gestured at the room. “He has put together an organization in very short time. Remarkable.”
Corradon shook his head. “No, not Vero. Not at all. He is a strategist, and I agree a remarkable one, but he is not a leader in battle. It is not his gifting. You and he complement each other.”
“Our sentinel is also from outside,” said Clemant. He seemed, to Merral, to be ill at ease. “And you, of course, have fought already.”
Suddenly, Merral felt a great desire to just say nothing and walk outside, to get out of this room and its claustrophobic, subterranean atmosphere and see the sun. He struggled against his desires.
“That is why I am so reluctant. I will not readily go back to fighting again. Nor would I wish it on others.”
As he said it, he wondered if his answer was so frank as to sound disrespectful. Should he try and justify it by talking of the horror he had felt at the fighting? But he felt inadequate to express what he had experienced, and anyway there seemed little point. Their minds were plainly made up.
Corradon’s look seemed sympathetic. “Oh, I know, Forester. But we must deal with these intruders, whoever they are. If we do, we must prepare for the possibility that we have to attack them, and as Vero has repeatedly pointed out to us, we cannot go halfheartedly into such a matter. We have only one chance, one possibility of surprise. Any attack must be done as efficiently as we possibly can.”
“I want to confirm that,” said Clemant, looking at Merral with his dark gray eyes. “We may have a single chance. A window of opportunity, perhaps only a few minutes.”
There were long seconds of silence. “I see that,” Merral answered. “But you must realize that any action like this would carry with it a certainty of death and injury on our side. We had an almost miraculous escape last time. If I was to lead it, I would feel responsible for what happened.”
Corradon looked up at him solemnly. “Yes, but if I authorized it, Forester—if I asked you to do it—why then, I would take responsibility.”
The silence returned. Eventually Corradon broke it. “But you see, Merral, we have a responsibility whether we like it or not. If we attack, we take risks. If we don’t attack we also take risks. I bitterly wish it was not my decision. But what can we do?”
Clemant gave a nod of grudging agreement.
How had this happened? Merral asked himself. How had it come about that he was being asked to lead a battle?
He suddenly knew, with unarguable certainty, that he could not agree there and then.
“Representative Corradon, Advisor Clemant,” he said, “I have to think this through. It is without precedent. Yes, I fought before, but it was defensive. I had no choice. This is different. Now we are planning an attack. And . . .”
For a moment, Merral closed his eyes, trying to think of the words; then he opened them and spoke slowly. “There is another factor. The great achievement of the Assembly has been peace. With this we would end that.”
“I know,” Corradon said, sounding distressed. “But we need a decision. I need you to lead these people.”
“I agree,” Clemant said. “This is a perilous venture. Your presence increases the chance of success. Your absence . . . ” He shrugged.
Suddenly, Merral knew what to say. “My decision is this: I need to think more about it.”
Corradon and Clemant exchanged unhappy glances.
“Very well,” Corradon said, shaking his head, “but Vero has suggested we act within a week. In fact, he is working to have the contact at dawn a week from tomorrow.”
“So soon? We have no more time?”
“No longer than that. We simply cannot afford to have the ship leave, and neither can we risk it heading into Assembly space spreading contamination. Midsummer approaches when the crater will never be in darkness; now, at least, we have some darkness to approach in.”
“But only a week? Can it be done?”
Corradon did not immediately answer but rubbed his face between his hands as if weary. Then he looked at Merral, his face showing concern. “Done? I would be lying if I said I had any assurance over the matter. But it has to be attempted. And that is why we need you. Even if we knew what to test for, we do not have the time to test men or women to lead in battle. You are the one man who we know can lead.”
“Perhaps.”
“No.” Corradon’s tone was blunt. “Merral, if you do not take this, we appoint someone else. But for all we know, when they are faced by these things, they may run. Only two men have fought for the Assembly in eleven thousand years. You are one; Vero is the other. He is eliminated. The equation is simple.”
“Sir, I appreciate that,” Merral answered, feeling under an intolerable pressure. “But surely we believe that a man must volunteer for such a position?”
A long, pained sigh came from the representative. “Yes. I cannot order you. We are Assembly still. The Assembly does not force.” He looked intently at Merral. “But I can plead,” he said, “and I do. But please talk to Vero about the plans. Perhaps advise him. Then let me know before, say, the evening of the day after tomorrow, what you choose to do. On the eve of the Lord’s Day. If you will not lead, the
n we will find someone else. But I would prefer you.”
“And I agree,” Clemant said.
He and Corradon rose.
“We must return to Isterrane,” the representative said. “I wish you peace with your decision. We will pray for you.”
As their footsteps faded away, Merral sat down heavily in a chair.
“I do not want to do this!” he whispered, and his voice seemed to echo about him. His memories of the battle at Carson’s Sill came flooding back. He even half wished he had not found the ship. Why am I so reluctant? Is it cowardice or something else?
Suddenly, the answer came to him abruptly and clearly. It was not cowardice, or not entirely. I’m reluctant because with this we would lose our innocence. With this action we will put the clock back twelve millennia. At a stroke, we would unleash all the ghosts of the past: the deceitful vocabulary of war, the dreadful concepts we have forgotten, those horrors disguised as “chivalry,” “patriotism,” or “valor” that lurked in the very oldest books, the laments like that of David over Saul and Jonathan, the grieving of the widows and orphans.
Then a new and darker thought struck him. If it happened, he could become known to posterity—for however many ages there were yet to run—as Captain Merral Stefan D’Avanos of the Farholme Defense Unit.
The man who brought war back to the human race.
32
Suddenly anxious to talk to Vero, Merral strode out of the room to the walkway in the cavern. At the railing, he paused and gazed into the space beyond. He stood there, his eyes caught by the angry flashes of yellow and white light and his ears assailed by the cacophony of noises: the conflicting rhythms of hammering and the roar and hum of engines and machinery, all echoing and reechoing off the rock walls. Now all this bustle of activity made sense. Vero was preparing to launch an attack against a vastly superior foe in a week’s time.
As Merral stood there, he found that all this activity buried in this vast, half-lit cavern saddened him. Where is our openness and our innocence? Have we lost it so soon?
He looked around for Vero and found him standing by one of the gray hulls of the gravity-modifying sleds in insistent conversation with a man in overalls. He clattered down the stairway and walked over to the sled.
As he approached, Vero dismissed the engineer, then came over and took his friend’s shoulder in an understanding grasp.
“I’m sorry,” Vero said, speaking loudly to make himself heard over the scream of a drill that had just started up.
“Yes, so am I,” Merral answered, feeling a strange mixture of emotions. “They want me to lead the fighting.”
“I know,” Vero said, his face lit by flickers of light. “Have you agreed?”
Merral said nothing for a few moments. “No. I’m thinking about it. There are lots of issues. It’s not an easy decision. But you think it will come to fighting, don’t you?”
Vero gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I fear so.”
Merral looked at the gray sled perched on trestles, noticing the benches that were being welded to the frame.
“Let me ask: what do you plan to do with these?”
“These? The two sleds are the main attack vehicles. Thirty men on each. The hoverer—over there—we will use for the negotiating party. These sleds are quieter and we may be able to get in faster. We are working on them to make them more suitable.”
Merral was suddenly aware of his ignorance. “Tell me, Vero, what’s supposed to happen. If I am to lead people into this attack, I ought to know.”
“Yes,” Vero agreed, leaning back cautiously against the polished hull of the sled. “Well, once the order is given—”
“Wait, who gives the order?”
“You . . . or whoever the commander on the ground is. We can’t assume that we will be able to keep a link to Isterrane going. They may be able to block it, just as they did with our transmissions.”
“So the decision to fight—that may be mine?”
“Yes. But, I mean, there is hardly time for the representatives to debate the matter. Is there? Seconds may count here.”
“I see. So if—or when—I say go, what happens?”
Vero’s face acquired an unsettled look. “Well, it’s still fluid. The idea is to get in quickly and disable the ship somehow. Perena suggests we blow open a hatch or some doorway. All we have to do is stop it from leaving the atmosphere. The intruders can’t breathe in a vacuum. Of course, it would help if we knew exactly what the ship looked like, but there must be doorways, landing gear, that sort of thing. . . .” He pointed a thumb over at a nearby pallet where some lurid red boxes lay. “We have had some fast-expanding polymer cut into wedges; when you trigger the reaction, they triple their volume inside a second. They will stop a door from closing. There are also some planar explosives safe down another tunnel. With them we can blast off an entire landing leg.”
“I see. You know that they aren’t going to stand by while you put these charges down?”
Vero pursed his lips. “No. Of course not.”
“So have you weapons?”
“Nothing fancy, but we have some things. Better than just bush knives. Although we will be issuing those—it’s a tried-and-tested weapon. But the new weapons . . . do you want to see them?”
Merral suppressed his dislike. “No . . . But I’d better, I suppose.”
“Over here,” Vero said, motioning him to the corner from where Merral had seen the flashes of light earlier. In the corner, two men and a woman in thick overalls were working on some tubular parts at a bench.
As Vero introduced him, Merral was struck by the look of recognition that his name drew. They know who I am; my reputation has gone ahead of me. Was this also why they wanted him to lead? A man who had already fought and won once. Yet the next time might be different.
Cautiously, Vero picked up one of the dull gray tubular objects off the bench. “Recognize this?” he asked. “Careful, the barrel’s hot.”
“Yes, it’s a rock cutter,” Merral answered, seeing the handle and the shoulder rest. “I’ve seen my Uncle Barrand use one in the quarry work.”
“Exactly,” Vero answered. “The XM2 model. We have been modifying some to give a pulse of energy. We have adjusted the beam focus and put an easy-to-operate switch on. What’s the range now, Salla?” Vero asked the woman.
Merral, glancing at her, noticed the beads of sweat on her face, the stains on her hands, the disheveled and dusty blonde hair.
Salla nodded at the rock cutter in a detached way. “Well, with the hundred millisec pulse we have settled on, we can get fifteen meters with a tight beam and fifty meters on the broad focus. Broad focus is lower temperature. Below a thousand Celsius at the center. It’s the best compromise at the moment. . . .”
Her tone seemed as clear and precise as if she expected Merral to take notes. He wondered what she had been previously; an engineering lecturer, perhaps?
“I see,” Vero said, standing back. “I’d like to show Merral how it works. Give him a demonstration, please.”
Salla picked up the weapon. “It’s too heavy really, but the XM2s were not designed to be carried about quickly. I wouldn’t like to carry one for a long time.” She slid a toggle on the side. “Another innovation—a safety switch. Technically, a fascinating compromise.” Merral noted her keen gray eyes staring in his direction. “You have to balance the need to stop it going off accidentally against the need to switch it on fast.”
Merral merely nodded, his mounting unease warring against his urge to understand.
She pointed it toward the chamber wall, and Merral noticed for the first time a series of colored concentric rings painted on a plastic screen perhaps twenty meters away.
“With the safety switch off,” she said, lifting the gun up and squinting along the barrel, “the power comes on instantly with the first pressure on the trigger.” There was a faint hum and a red light on the side glowed. “A further press and you fire. Thus.”
There
were three soft hisses from the barrel and three small crimson flames flared briefly in the center of the target. As the wisps of smoke faded, three blackened holes appeared in the target, each large enough to put a finger in.
As Salla lowered the gun carefully onto the bench, her smile seemed uneasy, almost guilty. “And then, you put the safety back on. Always.”
“Impressive.” As he said the word, Merral realized he wasn’t sure what he meant by it.
Vero nodded. “Yes, these are the final adjustments being made. We have over a hundred of these ready. What are you working on now?”
“Calibrating the focus switch,” one of the men said.
“A focus switch? Why do you need it?” Merral asked.
Salla answered him. “A tight-focus beam will cut through most metals and polymers,” she said, “but it’s got to be precisely aimed. The broad focus gives a wider burn zone: say a hand’s width.”
Merral looked at her, suddenly curious whether this woman was married or not, and if she was, whether she had children.
“You’d use that for what?”
Without hesitation came the answer. “For soft targets.”
“For soft targets,” Merral echoed, trying to conceal his feelings. “I see. Thank you for the demonstration, Salla. You have worked hard. Excuse me.”
He turned sharply and walked away a few paces, urgently gesturing for Vero to follow him.
“Let’s go back to the room with the maps. We need to talk.”
Back in the room, Merral closed the door and sat at the table. Vero sat opposite. “You seem upset,” he said.
I am upset. Merral tried to contain his emotions. “Vero, let me ask you a single question: What is a soft target?” His voice sounded hard and cold.
