Infinite Day

by Chris Walley

  Eventually soaked, tired, overloaded with thoughts, and with his uniform smeared with mud, he climbed up through sodden trenches running with rivulets of water toward the summit of the main ridge. Every so often, sheer walls up to ten meters high had been cut in the rocks. They gleamed with a strange silvery reflective sheen, and the rainwater raced down without hesitation.

  Mirror ice. He reached out and touched it, feeling his finger slide over it with an extraordinary ease.

  “They won’t climb that,” opined the mud-stained Major Clanadi.

  “Not easily,” Merral added. “But they are resourceful. Never underestimate Krallen.”

  The certainty in his voice disturbed him. How like a soldier I now sound. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror-ice wall: lean, hard, uniformed, and stained. I am unrecognizable as Forester D’Avanos. Is this what I have become? Warrior D’Avanos? We lamented the absence of veterans at Fallambet; now I have become a veteran myself. He looked away. Lord, make this my last battle.

  “Okay, sir?” It was Lloyd. Merral turned to him, noticing the sodden uniform and seeing water dripping off the gun slung over his back.

  “Yes, Sergeant. I’ve just decided that I would like this to be my last time on a battlefield.”

  There was a grunt of agreement. “Can’t say as I’d object myself. Not anymore.”

  They walked upward, but instead of dropping down into the command bunker at the topmost crags, they climbed up some steps onto the rainswept summit. They walked along the spine between emplacements, in which drenched men and women were urgently assembling missile batteries, to the far end. There, ten meters below them, was a narrow suspension bridge that vibrated in the wind. Clouds scudded under it, parting briefly enough to reveal a chasm of wet rock below. On the far side, the bridge passed into a dark, open doorway near the top of a looming tower of wet rock. As far as they could see, the lower parts of the tower had vertical surfaces on which wet mirror ice gleamed. Merral realized that the peak of Tahuma-B was no less a building complex than anywhere else here; there were workers clustered precariously on ledges or balanced on rock slabs linking up wires and pipes.

  “When will they finish the Gate core center?” he asked the major, raising his voice as a rotorcraft with a load of piping roared in just overhead.

  “Tomorrow evening, sir. The Gate control unit is in place and being tested. It’s the rest of the facilities.”

  Too much is being completed barely hours before any attack. It’s going to be tight. Maybe too tight.

  Shortly afterward, Merral was led down to the defense command bunker deep inside Tahuma-A. It was a solid circular construction, windowless, made of silica-concrete with titanium reinforcing beams and shock-wave-absorbing blast doors. The floor was filled with a dozen tables with screens surrounded by chairs on which people in uniform were sitting. Every wall seemed covered by a high screen displaying some sort of data or imagery. The room was full and buzzed with talk and orders.

  “Welcome to the Circle, sir,” said Major Clanadi.

  As Merral entered the main room, the urgent talking fell silent. He was given a bout of saluting and then a round of applause.

  They clap not for what I have done but in the hope that I will deliver them.

  He dismissed the applause with a gesture. Let’s try to keep this light; there will be time for seriousness. “Well, I’ve done all I can to avoid meeting you here: having prior engagements edgeward of the Assembly, getting marooned for a few weeks, even having a spell in the hospital, but here I am.” There was laughter—the brittle, brief laughter he had come to recognize as that of nervous men and women trying to forget their fears.

  Merral continued. “We don’t know whether we will be attacked. I want us to assume that we will be. And possibly as early as the Lord’s Day. I’ve got a lot to learn in a short time. I would value your patience and your prayers. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change into some dry clothes. We have a saying: ‘Beware the weather in the Made Worlds.’ Old Earth seems to want to prove something.”

  The major showed him into a tiny room with a shower and a bunk with some spare uniforms on it. He showered and changed and then sat on the bed and prayed for wisdom. Picking up a databoard, he went out into the Circle, where Lloyd was waiting for him.

  Merral gazed around, looking for someone who would fit the bill as defense coordinator.

  “Coffee, sir?” The voice at his side was quiet and unassertive. “And you, Sergeant?”

  Merral turned to see a slightly built, blonde-haired woman with sharp brown eyes, carrying a tray of coffee mugs.

  “Thanks,” he said and took a mug. He noticed that, in contrast to others in the room, she had her jacket carelessly open to display a T-shirt. Not a natural soldier; but which of us is?

  “I’m trying to spot the defense coordinator.” He sipped on the coffee.

  “Not easy. A DC needs to be fast, fit, and capable of handling a dozen data streams at once. That’s just for a start. See that seat, the one with all the gear? That’s the DC’s.” Merral saw an empty, high-backed chair with an arc of screens and switches around.

  “It’s empty.”

  “Yeah. That’s because she went to get you some coffee.” There was amusement in the voice.

  Merral turned to the woman. “You?”

  “The same.” The eyes smiled at him. “Lena Kelaart. But everyone calls me DC.”

  Merral looked at Lloyd and caught the surprise on his face. “Well, DC, you make a good cup of coffee. Show me what else you can do.”

  “Be a pleasure. Let’s do a simulation.”

  Merral soon decided that Lena the DC was very good.

  She sat in her chair with her jacket off—“gives me freedom to move”—surrounded by switches, handgrips, toggles, and screens.

  As the walls filled with flashing data and images of a simulated attack, her fingers began dancing on screens, while her eyes darted from screen to screen as she issued a stream of orders, some utterly incomprehensible to Merral. “Mis-Bat 5: lock on to bogey in quadrant Delta Nine. Await orders. Inf-16: prepare for K-boy attack. Deep-Def 2: incoming artil from 045.”

  Every so often she would turn to Merral. “Chief, decision needed.” Then she would ask something like, “Troop reinforcements to Charlie 2 or Gamma 8?” and Merral would have to respond, generally with a guess.

  Finally the simulation ended, and with all eyes on her, DC bounded out of her chair and stretched herself like an athlete. He saw Lloyd staring at the woman with open admiration.

  DC turned to Merral with a smile. “Well, Chief, we may make a soldier out of you yet.”

  “Thanks.” Merral smiled back. Humor will be in short supply soon. “Okay, DC, later I want you to replay all that and tell me what on earth was going on. But before we do that, I need to hold some meetings.”

  Merral spent much of the rest of the afternoon in meetings. He met with men and women with such once-forgotten titles as “military specialist,” “defensive architect,” “ordinance engineer,” as well as captains and majors, surgeons and nurses, pilots and communication experts. He very nearly met with the head of catering but, at the last minute, passed him on to someone else.

  Merral soon realized that, in addition to being viewed as a celebrity, he was indeed seen as being in charge. People clearly expected him to give orders and, with increasing confidence, he did just that.

  Then he returned to the simulations and, guided by DC, began to master some of the issues. She does the hard work of filtering and summarizing the data. I just have to act on the summaries.

  That night, after supper, a lieutenant offered to show Merral some of the archaeological remains they had discovered. Finding a brief moment of quiet and feeling the need for some exercise, Merral decided to take ten minutes off. The lieutenant walked him down a long, winding corridor off the main bunker, discoursing on the inscriptions and artifacts they had found. Struck more forcibly than he had expected by what he had se
en, Merral eventually thanked the lieutenant and returned to the main bunker.

  Two hours later as Merral had just lain down on his mattress to sleep, he was summoned to a secure link with a seated and weary-looking Ethan. More bad news.

  “Merral, I’m at Gate Central here. A couple of the Silverfish vessels are heading to Gate Three. I don’t think I’ve got any option except to shut down the Gate system. That has the bonus that we can divert all our defensive forces to intercepting the ships heading for Earth. You concur?”

  “Yes.” What else can I say?

  “I thought you would. I asked half an hour ago for every Gate to start to close down and let any final flights come through. They should all be clear very soon, and the moment they are, I will switch off every Gate within two hundred light-years and switch control to Tahuma. Then I shall leave here, and we will blow this place up.”

  Ethan sat back in the chair and stared at Merral with a solemn face. “Soon only Tahuma Control can open the Gates, and that only on my command. I have sent a message around the Assembly encouraging faith and prayer and resistance. It may be the last contact for some time.” He sighed. “Oh, I wish there were another way. But there isn’t. I have no idea of the future. The details of the Sacrifice have been sent on in case we fall. The worlds may use the design.”

  Merral had a sense that with Ethan, frailty was close at hand but, for the moment, held firmly at bay.

  “Maybe there will be a long war. Perhaps they may decide to go into exile. It will not be my decision.”

  “We may win.”

  “Indeed. We mustn’t neglect that possibility.” Ethan looked up at someone off camera. “Enough of my words. The Gates are clear.” He gave an order. “Close down the Gates and set the charges.”

  Ethan gave Merral a humorless smile. “Well, we are alone. As are the majority of the Assembly worlds.”

  With the exception of the worlds toward the galactic center, where a limited Gate system will still exist, it will now take on average a fifty-year round trip for anything more than the briefest conversation to occur between our planets. In a sense, the Assembly as a union of worlds has ceased to exist.

  Ethan said, with a look of sour humor, “There is one bright point: my administrative load is now vastly reduced.” He stared at Merral. “Well, soldier, we can only do what we have to do.”

  Merral was awoken before dawn on Thursday morning. The news was alarming: although the Blade was continuing on the predicted trajectory, a dozen vessels, including the two that had started toward Gate Three, were now accelerating toward Earth. From their speed and paths, it was felt they could be in position to launch a ground landing within fifty-five hours.

  Merral rubbed his eyes, checked the clock, and did the calculations. An attack as early as Saturday midday, possibly as much as a dozen hours before Amethyst is fired. We have a deadline a full day earlier than the one we were struggling to meet.

  He got up, prayed, and dressed, then considered his options. At seven he summoned all the team leaders, broke the news that they could expect the attack much earlier than they had planned, and sent them to work.

  Merral spent almost all of Thursday in the Circle holding meetings, running more simulations, and making plans. In the early afternoon, accompanied by Lloyd, he made a brief foray around the waterlogged and still rain-lashed site. He was encouraged by the visible progress in some places and discouraged by the delays elsewhere.

  He was at the southern perimeter, watching an attempt to pull a stuck earthmover out of the mud, when he had a message that an important shipment had arrived for him. He returned to the main runway, driving past the long lines of personnel and equipment disembarking from a giant transport. At the storage area, overflowing with crates, he was shown to a door guarded by armed men. A slight, dark-skinned figure came alongside him.

  “Vero!” His friend was not in uniform; a fact that here seemed to make him conspicuous.

  “At your service.”

  “Where have you come from?”

  “From going to and fro in the earth. I thought I’d better turn up for Betafor.”

  Merral turned to Lloyd. “Ready for your old friend, Sergeant?”

  Lloyd tapped a finger on his gun barrels. “Of course, sir.”

  “Don’t be too hasty, Sergeant.”

  Vero raised a hand in a warning gesture. “She doesn’t know about Amethyst. And she mustn’t know. And let me deal with her. As we agreed.”

  They walked past the guards and through the door. Inside, a green figure was sitting on a box, facing away, with the perfect immobility of a statue. After a second, the head rotated smoothly toward them.

  “Commander, Sentinel,” Betafor said, looking around. “And . . . Sergeant Enomoto” Then she tilted her head at Merral. “How are you, Commander?”

  “As well as can be expected. Welcome to Earth.”

  “Thank you. I had no expectation of ever being here.”

  “I’m sorry we can’t take you to see the sights.” Merral paused, struck by something. “I’ve never asked: do you have curiosity? to see things like old buildings and historic places?”

  Betafor gazed at him. “A significant question. Allenix would never be tourists; we have no idle curiosity. Nevertheless, there is a recognition that the firsthand data gathered by being in a place is superior to relying on secondhand data. This is particularly so with Earth and places like Jerusalem. Human beings seem to become even more irrational in these places. Descriptions cease to be factual: they become emotional outbursts.”

  “Thank you for that insight,” Merral said, aware that Vero was grinning. I suppose I am peculiarly privileged to have heard our species criticized by both an angel and a machine.

  “As you are the first Allenix here, I feel there ought to be a reception for you. But I thought secrecy might be best.” For you and for us.

  “I agree.”

  “Are you aware of the situation?” Merral asked.

  “Yes. I have followed events.”

  “Comments?”

  “I am learning that you defy statistics, but this time, the outlook is not good. It does seem that there will be an attack here in forty-eight hours.”

  “It seems likely. Now, Betafor, our relationship is a little unclear. Vero is going to clarify it.”

  Vero stepped forward. “B-Betafor, your agreement with us was voided by that . . . incident on the Sacrifice. However, the commander and I feel that you have served us well, and we are inclined to set you free.”

  Merral hesitated and then nodded agreement.

  “Thank you.”

  “But we need you over the next few days. We need all the communications help we can get. We want you to stay.”

  “You wish me to . . . volunteer?”

  “Yes.”

  The smooth eyes turned from Vero to Merral and then back again. What is she thinking?

  “And if I survive any battle, what happens to me?”

  Vero gave a taut smile. “We would offer you a full pardon and citizenship in the Assembly.”

  Merral tried to stop himself from starting with surprise. Can we do that?

  Betafor flexed her lips. “Sentinel, my understanding is that the Assembly doesn’t recognize the right of synthetic intelligences to become citizens.”

  Vero raised a finger. “Aah! The basis for that ancient ruling is the logic that no one can be ordered to join a free society. And because machines only obey orders, a machine cannot be a citizen. But by voluntarily agreeing to join us, you would demonstrate you have free will, and so you’d prove that you are a special case.”

  “And what happens if I do not volunteer?”

  “We don’t release you from your duty.”

  “So I have . . . to serve you anyway. So there is no advantage in refusing the invitation to be a volunteer?”

  “None.”

  “So I am being . . . forced to be a volunteer?”

  “Yes. It’s a catch-22.”

 
“What?” said Betafor.

  “What?” said Merral.

  “A vital military principle the ancients invoked in time of war. The element of choice is removed.”

  Betafor turned to Merral. “Commander, my circuitry does not allow me to sigh. If it did, I would. You have . . . criticized me for being negative about human logic. Do you see my difficulties?”

  “Er, yes.”

  “Good. Then reluctantly I volunteer to help.”

  “Thank you, Vero,” Merral said. “One last thing, Betafor. I hope you don’t take it as an insult that Lloyd may be assigned to watch over you.”

  “I shall be delighted to have his presence.”

  “Was that irony, Betafor?”

  “No. A lie.”

  They left Betafor in the guarded room, and outside, Merral turned to Vero. “Another conversation for future philosophers to delight in.”

  Vero gave a careless shrug. “She had to give in; she was between a rock and a hard place.”

  “What does that mean? Exactly?”

  Vero looked thoughtful. “Actually . . . you know, I’m not sure.”

  “I’ll have her moved up late tonight to the command bunker. That will keep the number of people who know of her low. Where are the skimmers?”

  “They were too big to fit any freighter that can land here. They’re at a landing strip to the south, where by now they ought to be hidden in hangars.”

  “They may be better there.” This runway may fall early in an attack. “The armor?”

  “Sent up to your quarters.”

  Merral took Vero back to the Circle, showed him around, and introduced him to the team leaders. Then they went into his room, where they could talk privately.

  Merral turned to his friend. “I had hoped that we would not have to fight. But it looks like we may have to hold this place for a dozen hours.”

  “My friend, you must try. It will force Nezhuala to focus on events here.”

  “Perhaps. But it may be hard.”