Warstrider: Symbionts (Warstrider Series, Book Four)

by Ian Douglas

  Sinclair was waiting for them, along with Brenda Ortiz. Katya was also present, the accidental attack in the ascraft apparently forgotten, though the memory made Dev inwardly cringe. To his considerable surprise, another man was waiting there as well, the slim, dapper, and silver-haired Grant Morton, the current President of Congress.

  Like Sinclair, Morton was one of the original delegates to the Confederation Congress, and like both Sinclair and Katya, he was a native of New America. From what Dev had heard about the man, he was as politically conservative as Sinclair, but more willing to compromise than his more famous compatriot. It was largely due to Morton's influence that the genie slavery issue had not already fragmented the delicate coalition of colony worlds after initially being polarized by Liberty and Rainbow.

  "Well, don't stand there like a damned newbie recruit," Sinclair said, rising from the couch he was sharing with Morton. "Come in and drag up a seat for yourself."

  "Thank you, sir," Dev said. "Sorry I'm late. I wasn't told either of you was coming."

  "You weren't supposed to know, Dev," Sinclair said with a wink. "In fact, as far as you're concerned, neither of us is here."

  "If you say so." He turned to face President Morton. "Mr. President, this is an unexpected honor."

  "Hardly that," Morton told him. "An honor, that is, though I'll allow you that it's unexpected. Actually, I came over to download some more problems on you."

  Dev blinked at that. If the President of Congress had made a special trip across from the Rogue to the Eagle, it could only be because he feared that a ViRcom module communication might be somehow monitored.

  "What can we do for you, sir?"

  "Palm me."

  Puzzled, Dev held out his left hand, palm up, the intricate network of gold and silver wires embedded in the skin winking in the compartment's overhead lighting. The president stepped forward and laid his own palm implant across Dev's, and he felt the tiny thrill of incoming data.

  "What's . . . this?" Dev blinked, trying to read the file as it loaded itself into his personal RAM.

  "A promotion, of course. We've created a whole new rank for you. Dug it up out of the archives, actually. You're a commodore, now. Basically, that means you're still a taisa, a captain, I mean, but with the authority of a flag officer to command a squadron." He glanced at Katya, then back at Dev. "This expedition needs a single, clear-cut leader. We've decided you're it. You'll notice that the packet I just gave you includes a promotion for your ship's XO. We're giving the Eagle to Captain Canady, to free you up for your duties as commander of this squadron."

  "I . . . see." In the flurry of preparations for Farstar, Dev had given little thought to the expedition's command structure. Both he and Katya had held ranks corresponding to the taisa of both Hegemony and Empire. In the Confederation's new rank structure, which had been drawn from that of the Frontier militias, he was a captain, she a colonel, which meant basically that he was in charge of the spacecraft involved, while Katya ran the regiment-sized ground contingent. Morton's promotion took things a step farther, placing him in definite command of the entire expedition. "Sir, I'm not so sure this is a good—"

  "Can it. Sinclair and I decided this last night. We don't have time to change things now, especially over an attack of modesty."

  Dev could hear the worry in Morton's voice, could read the sense of urgency.

  "You're moving the schedule up," Dev said bluntly. "There's a problem. What is it?"

  Morton and Sinclair exchanged glances. "Told you he was quick," Sinclair said dryly.

  "Commodore, Colonel Alessandro . . . you're not supposed to know this and you didn't hear it from me, but Lauer and his clique have forced a new vote on the agenda tomorrow. That he did so can only mean he thinks he has a chance of winning a two-thirds majority."

  "A vote? On what?" Dev was confused. Ronal Lauer, he knew, was a delegate from Rainbow, and a representative of the population of one of the largest of that world's genie farms. As such, he was among the most outspoken of those in Congress supporting the institution of genie slavery. Dev had heard more than one of the man's speeches . . . undeniably brilliant, but how could anyone reasonably claim that gene-tailored workers had any less right to life or liberty than the full humans already fighting for independence from Imperial tyranny?

  "About whether or not you, Commodore, should be permitted to go with this expedition."

  "Dev not go?" Katya asked. "That's crazy! Why not?"

  "It's the Xenolink," Sinclair told her. "There's considerable concern around here that Dev here is the only one with the, ah, experience necessary for linking with the Heraklean Xenophobe. And the Xenophobe . . . or rather, Dev and the Xenophobe together, are all that's keeping the Imperials from moving in and grabbing us all."

  "That doesn't make sense," Dev said. "I was just gone for four months. Why didn't they oppose that?"

  "Some of them did, at least privately," Sinclair said. "I felt you needed some time away, so I arranged for your raiding expedition without, um, consulting with some members of the War Council. Could be they remember that and are trying to steal a march on me this time."

  "And now you're getting ready to go again," Morton added. "When it's almost a sure bet that the Imperials will be attacking soon. Lauer's faction wants to keep you here to link with the Naga again, if it becomes necessary."

  "But the Naga hasn't even been seen," Katya protested. "Even if Dev stayed, there's no guarantee that he could link with it again."

  "Agreed," Sinclair said. "And we do have volunteers ready to try linking with the Naga again if the Imperials return. When they return, I should say. Dev's description of what happened during his debriefing strongly suggests that it will know how to initiate a full link with a human, even if we don't."

  "It must," Dev said. "I sure as hell don't know how to do it. I was unconscious when it happened to me last time."

  "Logic doesn't necessarily work with some people," Morton said. "Sometimes I suspect that my distinguished colleague from Rainbow is less susceptible to its lures than others. Even so, I can understand their reluctance to lose you, young man. You saved us, all of us, in your one-man stand atop that terraforming pyramid. Another man might not have done so well."

  Dev tried to suppress an inner shudder, and failed. For the briefest of instants, the nightmare was back. He had reached out with his mind, and lightnings had stabbed and crackled in the sky about him, fiery gestures in a cascade of raw, searing power. He caught Katya's hard gaze, and the memory crumbled. He felt embarrassed, even ashamed.

  "Sir, I really don't think I'm the one for this job."

  "Eh?" Morton snapped. "Nonsense."

  "What's the problem, Dev?"

  "I . . . I have reason to doubt my, my mental stability. . . ."

  "He's had some nightmares," Katya said, quietly interrupting. "Bad ones, just since the Xenolink four months ago. We've talked about it, and he's been using Eagle's psych monitor program. In my opinion, sir, he's fully able to carry out this mission. In fact, I can't think of anyone else in the whole Confederation fleet who could carry it out better than him."

  Dev blinked at Katya, trying to see behind the calm of her eyes.

  "All the more reason not to stay here and link with the damned Naga," Morton said, trying to make it sound like a joke.

  "Dev, I've known you since Eridu," Sinclair said. "I have complete faith in you, in your tactical grasp of things, in your ability to handle yourself and your people. Now, has anything measurable changed in your psych profiles, anything that should disqualify you as a military officer?"

  "Nothing . . . measurable. The monitor says I need rest."

  Sinclair gave a wry grin. "Unfortunately, I can't let you go on vacation. I need you too much."

  "I . . . I kind of assumed that was the case, sir."

  "You'll have another three-or four-month trip en route to Alya. Think that'll take care of your problem?"

  Dev frowned. The more he thought about it, t
he sillier disqualifying himself for a tendency to have nightmares seemed. Of course he was fit to command . . . and forcing Sinclair and Morton to rearrange their planning now would prove nothing, would do nothing, for him or for the expedition.

  Besides, if he stayed, he would be expected to join with the monster again if the Imperials attacked. To become the monster.

  He couldn't face that.

  "General Sinclair," Dev said, drawing himself up straighter. "Mr. President. I'm fully ready and able to accept command. Under whatever command structure you care to name."

  "That's settled then,". Sinclair said. He smiled. "So. How quickly can you leave?"

  Dev turned inward for a moment, consulting records stored within his RAM. "We could leave in twenty hours," he said. "Eagle is about ready for boost now except for loading the last of her OP stores. But none of the other ships have reported readiness for boost yet. As of six hours ago, they had anywhere from ten to another fifty hours' work remaining."

  The squadron readying for the Alyan mission was an odd patchwork of a fleet. Eagle would be flagship, of course, while the two twenty-five-thousand–ton Commerce-class freighters Vindemiatrix and Mirach carried the bulk of Katya's 1st Confederation Rangers, complete with warstriders and other heavy equipment. Tarazed had started off as a New American cryo-H tanker, but she'd been converted into a carrier; packed into the hangar deck in what had been the forwardmost of five huge containment spheres were eighty-two warflyers, the equivalent of an entire Imperial dragonship fighter wing. There were also several unarmed merchantmen devoted to carrying military stores and equipment.

  Escorting these larger vessels were the light destroyer Constellation, two frigates, the Rebel and the Valiant, and three corvettes. These were six of the eighteen warships Dev had captured in a lightning raid against the Imperial shipyards at Athena months earlier, just before the rebel evacuation from New America. The rest would stay behind to protect the Confederation's government . . . whether here at Herakles, or while moving from system to system as part of Sinclair's plan to avoid confrontation with the Empire.

  "That'll be damned tight, Dev," Sinclair told him. "The vote is scheduled in Congress in another twenty-two hours. Make arrangements with your ship captains. If they're not ready to boost at the same time as you, they'll have to follow later and rendezvous with you at Alya."

  Dev nodded. "We already have the navigational arrangements and protocols set up," he said, "since we can't keep track of one another in K-T space. If some of us make the K-T transition before others, it won't matter."

  "Good."

  "Our biggest problem, sir, is the CT. The last I heard they wouldn't be coming aboard until late tomorrow. I was told they were still working on some contact scenarios through the Rogue's AI."

  Sinclair looked at Ortiz, who'd been sitting quietly throughout the discussion so far. "Professor?"

  Arguably the most important contingent on the expedition was the Contact Team, fifteen men and women with experience dealing with the DalRiss, or who'd extensively studied various aspects of DalRiss culture, science, and language since the return of the Imperial Expeditionary Force three years earlier. Professor Ortiz was the senior contact officer. Technically, Dev and Katya were both members of the Contact Team as well, since both of them had dealt with the DalRiss during that earlier expedition, but since they were likely to be busy dealing with Imperials once planetfall was made, they would join the team only for negotiations with the DalRiss government, or if their particular expertise was needed.

  "I'll talk to my people, sir," Ortiz said. "We ought to be able to keep working on those sims aboard Eagle. The less complex ones, anyway."

  "That sounds satisfactory," Sinclair said. "See if you can move up the timetable. But don't discuss the change in boost time, please. I'd rather my compatriots in Congress didn't know you'd gone until after the fact."

  "Won't this get you into some kind of trouble?" Katya wanted to know.

  "I doubt it. Lauer already hates both Grant here and me. He'd love to see supreme command given to someone else . . . preferably a Rainbowman. He'll bluster and fume if he finds out you've already left, but there won't be much he can do about it. The danger is if he gets word you're bolting early and takes it into his head to order troops to stop you from leaving. That could split CONMILCOM and the government wide open. I'd rather not risk that, not now."

  "You could keep me here, General," Dev said slowly. "I'm not absolutely necessary to the expedition."

  "Maybe. I think you are. Of all the ship captains in the fleet, even those with experience with squadron-level tactics, you're the best we have. You've proved it, at Eridu, at Athena, and at New America." He shrugged. "You know, we have no idea how large the Imperial squadron at Alya is. You might get out there and find a couple of frigates. We hope that's the case, and Intelligence suggests that the Imperial fleet assets at Alya are, in fact, quite small. With the Rebellion spreading through the Frontier, they can't afford to tie down too many ships that far from home.

  "But you just might break out of K-T space out there and find a major squadron waiting for you. Cruisers. Even one of their Ryus, though Milliken has personally assured me that all of their dragonships are accounted for." Charles Milliken was the Confederation's head of Military Intelligence.

  "Charming thought," Katya said. Dev remained silent, wondering where Sinclair was going.

  "Dev, this mission is a long shot. We all know that. Even if the Imperials prove to be no problem at all out there, there's no guarantee that the DalRiss will be willing to cooperate, and we must have their help, or we're going to lose this war."

  Dev blinked. "Sir, you can't believe that. Or you wouldn't have brought us to where we are. The whole war can't depend on whether or not a handful of us are able to establish communication with—"

  "It can, and I'm afraid it does, son. You know, when this thing started, I wasn't looking for a clean break with the Imperium. I thought maybe we could reach some sort of accommodation, a compromise, but it's gone too far for that, too far by half. When it turned into a military struggle, with the fighting at Eridu, a lot of us thought that simply demonstrating that we were willing to stand up against the Empire would be enough to force them to back down, to say, 'all right, this is getting expensive, let them go.' "

  "It didn't happen that way."

  "No. It didn't. Because we underestimated just how far some elements of the Imperial and Hegemony governments were willing to go to hang on to the power they had. Or to save face. We also underestimated—I underestimated—the willingness of the Frontier worlds to take a stand. Some of them, Liberty and Rainbow, for instance, are in the thick of it, but a lot more are sitting on the fence, sending delegates to Congress but unwilling to send men, ships, equipment. Our revolution is going to die, Dev, unless we can turn it around with something big.

  "That's why I'm investing so much on this mission. You, Katya, with most of your regiment. You, Dev, with a fair-sized percentage of our entire fleet. If anyone can exploit this, this rift between the DalRiss and the Empire, it's the two of you."

  "You're leaving a terrible hole in the defenses here, sir," Dev said quietly.

  "Not really. Here, Eagle and Tarazed and the other ships in your squadron might delay the inevitable . . . how much? A month? A year, perhaps? But the end would be the same, sooner or later. Mostly, our survival depends on whether or not I can avoid large-scale contact with the enemy, because when that happens, the Confederation Navy is finished, and Eagle's presence won't make that big a difference, one way or the other.

  "Out there, though, well, who can say? We have a chance, a small but clean chance, of winning friends powerful enough that we just might end the war. Of convincing the Imperials that it would be cheaper to let us have our freedom than to keep fighting.

  "But the key is not going to be how many troops or ships I send to Alya. It's going to be the genius of the people leading them, because, thank God, people still make better decisi
ons than machines, and some people perform far better than others. You two are such people, and the fate of the Rebellion, of this Confederation, might well be riding with the two of you."

  "My God," Katya said, her voice so low that Dev barely caught it. "You sure don't believe in putting any pressure on your people, do you?"

  If Sinclair heard her words, he ignored them. Dev said nothing, his mind was racing. He ought, he told himself, to tell Morton and Sinclair that he was not the man to lead the Confederation squadron, that it would be better—safer—to assign him to one of the ships remaining at Herakles. There were other senior officers better qualified than he—Admiral Herren, for instance, or Captain Jase Curtis of the Tarazed—people who did not question their own sanity.

  As Dev had recently begun questioning his.

  Chapter 11

  Individuality is alien to Naga thought. With only a single organism occupying a given world, that organism believes itself to be the sole intelligence in its entire universe; indeed, for the Naga, intelligence and self are indistinguishable concepts. In the course of its explorations of its universe, a Naga will "bud" pieces of itself as scouts capable of independent action and thought, scouts that return to the parent body the memory of the scout's wanderings. By building on this experience, planetary Nagas can form conceptual analogue-pictures of separate entities, each with a unique viewpoint and history. This requires considerable flexibility on the Naga's part, however, far more than that required, say, by a member of one human culture attempting to understand the point of view of someone raised with a different cultural world view.

  —Intelligent Expectations

  Dr. James Phillip Kantor

  CE. 2542

  Thirty-two thousand kilometers above Herakles, the Imperial fleet decelerated into synchronous orbit. The planet, half-full, gleamed in the warm yellow light of Mu Herculis, its seas blue and violet, its clouds and polar ice caps gleaming white with golden highlights.