by Vernor Vinge
They looked down on the base only briefly, then silently started toward it. The possibility that they might be shot out of hand had occurred to them, but now they were too tired to worry much about it.
They were picked up by a patrol before they reached the tilled fields. The soldiers didn’t shoot, but it was obvious that the visitors were unwelcome. Chente was relieved of his hardware and he and Martha were hustled into an olive-drab car that performed much more efficiently than the huffer Mayor Flaggon drove. Apparently the Ontarians could make fairly good machinery, when ostentation didn’t require otherwise. Their captors made no attempt to prevent them from looking about as they drove through the base toward the water’s edge, and Chente forced his tired mind to take in all he could. They tooled over the brick-paved road past row after row of warehouses—a testament to Ontarian perseverance. To bring so much equipment and material must have taken many carefully planned voyages. And to avoid Providencian detection, the supply convoys would have had to be small and inconspicuous.
They turned parallel to the long stone quay and drove between huge earthen reservoirs—presumably filled with vegetable oils—and piles of kindling. Further along the quay they passed several cruisers and a battleship. New Canadian ships were noticeably smaller than their counterparts in the old-time navies of Earth. A battleship here might run eight thousand tons and mount six 25-centimeter guns. A fleet of airships sat on the mudflats across the bay. No wonder Balquirth had had no fliers to spare on Wundlich.
Finally they stopped before a long three-story building that looked a good deal more permanent than the wooden warehouses. The driver unlocked the door to the passenger compartment and said, “Out.” Two soldiers covered them with what looked like four-barreled shotguns as they followed the driver up the steps to the building’s wide doorway.
THE INSIDE OF THE BUILDING was quite a contrast to the camouflaged exterior: deep-blue carpets covered the floor while paintings and tapestries were hung from the polished silver walls. Filament lamps glittered along the windowless hallway. They were led stumbling up two flights to a massive wooden door. One of the guards tapped lightly, and a muffled, though familiar, voice from beyond the door said, “Enter.”
They did so and found Pier Balquirth surrounded by aides and a pair of curvaceous secretaries. “Freeman Quintero! I should have guessed it was you. And the lovely, though girdle-bound, Miss Blount. Indeed, no longer girdle-bound—?” He raised his eyebrows. “Sit down, please. I have the feeling you may fall down if you don’t. I apologize that I don’t give you a chance to rest before talking, but a decent regard for Machiavelli demands that I ask some questions while your defenses are down. Whatever happened to Captain Oswald and his gallant crew?”
Chente brought the Ontarian up to date. As he spoke, Balquirth removed a cigar from his desk and lit up. He drew in several puffs and exhaled green smoke. Finally he waved his hand in amusement. “That’s pretty sloppy work for the Special Weapons Group, but I suppose they were trying to make your death seem an accident. I hope this opens your eyes, Freeman. Though the Special Weapons Group is the most ruthless bureaucracy within the tight little totalitarian state that calls itself New Providence, the other Groups aren’t much better. New Providence may be slightly ahead of the Ontarian Confederation technologically, but they use their advantage simply to make life unbearable for their ‘Citizens’, and to spread misery to other folks as well.”
Martha glared dully at Balquirth but kept silent. Chente recalled Balquirth’s casual, almost reckless attitude back in Freetown. He came close to smiling. A dandy and a fool are not necessarily the same thing. “You know, I think you drove me into the arms of New Providence just to create this situation.”
Balquirth looked faintly embarrassed. “That’s close to the truth. I stuck my neck way out to get your predecessor on one of my vessels. The first Quintero completed his survey, and told me his discoveries—I’m sure you’ve made these same discoveries by now—but he wouldn’t believe that a loose confederation like Ontario could handle the preparations for this core tremor. He kept insisting that both New Providence and Ontario must somehow unite and work together. These are nice sentiments, but he just didn’t realize how intolerant and uncompromising Miss Blount’s friends can be. When the New Providencians killed him, my government—and myself in particular—were the goats.
“This time I thought I’d let you go with the Providencians. They’d try to kill you and steal your gadgets, but I knew that without your active cooperation they wouldn’t get much use out of them. And I knew you were too stubborn to let them cajole you over to their side. If you were killed, then they would look bad. If by some quirk they didn’t manage to kill you, I was pretty sure that you would realize what an unpleasant bunch they are.
“I am truly pleased that you survived, however. Can we depend on your help, or are you even more stubborn than I had guessed?”
Chente didn’t answer immediately. “Are you in charge here?”
Pier chuckled. “As those things go in the Ontarian Confederacy—yes. We’ve got men and material from four major bossdoms here, and their chiefs are at each other’s throat half the time. But the base was my idea, and the Bossmanic Council in Toronto has appointed me temporarily superior to the three other bossmen involved.”
The answer gave Chente a moment to think. In his way, the Ontarian was just as likable and just as much the capable fanatic as Martha. The only difference was that by accident of birth, one was supporting a loose feudal confederation and the other a more industrialized, more centralized regime. And both were so in love with their systems that they put national survival before the survival of the entire colony. Finally he said, “Your plan has convinced me—hell, it practically killed me. If you’ll bring in the things they confiscated, I may be able to show you something you can use.” Beside him, Martha’s expression became steadily darker, though she still maintained her silence.
The bossman turned to one of his secretaries: “Darlene, go out and have Gruzinsky bring in any equipment he’s holding. The rest of you leave, too—except Maclen, Trudeau, and our guests,” he gestured at Chente and Martha. Chente glanced at his companion, wondered why Balquirth had permitted her to remain. Then he realized that the Ontarian had guessed his involvement with Martha, and was gauging his truthfulness by the exhausted woman’s reactions.
A SOLDIER BROUGHT IN the various items taken from Chente and Martha, and placed them on the low table that sat before Balquirth’s empillowed throne. The bossman picked up Chente’s weapon. It looked vaguely like a large-caliber pistol, except that the bore was filled with a glassy substance.
“This does what I think it does?” Bossman Pier asked.
“Yes. It’s an energy weapon—but the radiation is in the submillimeter range, so there isn’t much ionization along the beam path, and your target can’t see where your fire is coming from. But you’ll find this more interesting.” He pulled the satellite display toward himself and pushed the green button on its side. The tiny screen lit up to show a section of coast and ocean. Balquirth was silent for several seconds. “Very pretty,” he said finally, but the banter was gone from his voice. “I never guessed the satellites were still working.”
“The colonial planners built them to last. They didn’t expect you would be able to go up and repair them.”
“Hm-m-m. Too bad they didn’t build our ground receivers the same way. What’s that?” Balquirth interrupted himself to point at a tiny white “vee” set in the open ocean between two wide cumulous cloud banks.
“A ship of some kind. Let’s have a closer took.” Chente stepped up the magnification. The craft was clearly visible, its white wake streaming out far behind it.
“Why, that’s the Ram!” one of the Ontarian officers exclaimed. “This is incredible! That ship left thirty-three hours ago. She must be hundreds of kilometers out, and yet we can see her as if we were flying over in an airship. When was this picture taken?”
“Less
than a second ago. The coverage is live.”
“What area can be observed with this gadget?”
“Everything except the poles, though high resolution pictures are available only up to latitude forty-five degrees.”
“Hm-m-m, we could reconnoiter the entire Inner Ocean.” Pier touched one of the knobs. Now that Chente had activated the device it responded to the Ontarian’s direction. The Ram’s image dwindled, slid to one side, and they looked down on an expanse of cloud-stippled ocean. Chente started. Almost off the left side of the screen was a cluster of wake “vees.” Balquirth increased the magnification until the formation filled the screen.
“Those aren’t ours,” one of the officers said finally.
“Clearly,” said Balquirth. “It’s equally clear that this is a New Providencian fleet, Colonel Maclen. And their wakes point our way.”
“Looks like four Jacob class battleships, half a dozen cruisers, and twenty destroyers,” said the second, older officer. “But what are those ships in the trailing squadron?” His eyes narrowed. “They’re troop transports!”
“Now, I wonder what an invasion force would be doing in this innocent part of the world,” said Pier.
The older officer didn’t smile at the flippancy. “From their wake angles I estimate they’re making thirty kilometers an hour, Bossman. If I read the key on the screen right, that means we have less than forty-four hours.”
Chente glanced across at Martha, saw her eyes staring back at him. Now he knew why the Special Weapons people had wanted another bomb. Pier noticed their exchange of looks.
“Any idea why this invasion should coincide with your arrival, Freeman Quintero?”
“Yes. My guess is that certain Providencian groups discovered your base here some months ago, but deferred attack until they could get still another nuclear bomb—namely the one I brought—for their stockpile.”
The bossman nodded, then seemed to put the matter aside. “Admiral Trudeau, I intend to meet them at sea. We have neither the shore batteries nor the garrison to take them on at the harbor entrance.”
The officer nodded, looking unhappy. “But even with this much warning,” he nodded at the screen, “they’ve still caught us with our pants down. I only have three cruisers, two battleships, and a handful of escort craft in port. We can’t stop four Jacob class battlewagons and a half dozen cruisers with that, Bossman.”
“We have the bombs, sir,” Colonel Maclen broke in.
“You Army sorts are all alike, Colonel,” Admiral Trudeau snapped. “The only time you ever used a bomb, it was smuggled into New Providencian territory and exploded on the ground. On the open sea we need at least twenty kilometers clearance between our fleet and the target. It’s mighty hard to sneak a dirigible, or a torpedo boat, across a gap that wide.”
Maclen had no answer to the criticism. Chente suddenly saw an opportunity to get at the Ontarian bombs and perhaps to destroy the Providencian nuclear capability in the bargain. He said, “But those comm bombs were mounted on drive units powerful enough to boost them out of the atmosphere. Why don’t you alter the drive program and let them deliver themselves?” The three Ontarians looked at him open-mouthed. Beside him he heard Martha gasp.
Balquirth said, “You can make such alterations?”
Chente nodded. “As long as we know the target’s position, I’ll have no problem.”
Martha gave an inarticulate cry of rage as she lunged across the table, picked up the recon display and flung it to the floor. Maclen and Trudeau grabbed her, forced her away from the table. Balquirth retrieved the display. The picture on the screen still glowed crisp and true. He shook his head sadly at Martha. “That’s it, then. Trudeau, sound general alarm. I want some kind of fleet ready to sail in twenty-two hours.”
The Navy man left without a word. Balquirth turned back to the Earthman. “You’re wondering why I don’t keep the fleet here, and lob the bomb out to sea when the enemy comes in range?”
Chente considered wearily. “That would be the prudent thing to do—if you trusted me.”
“Right, Unfortunately, I don’t trust you that far. I’ll let you decide which bomb you want, and let you supervise the launch, but I’d rather not risk this base on the possibility of a change in your heart. We may not have many ships here yet, but the physical plant we’ve developed makes this one of the best naval bases in our confederation—whether it remains secret or not.”
Chente nodded. Martha murmured something; Balquirth turned to her and bowed almost graciously. “You may come along, too, if you wish, Miss Blount.”
THE FEARSOME, Admiral Trudeau’s flagship, displaced seventy-three hundred tons and could run at better than forty kilometers per hour. She was doing at least that now. Chente stood on the bridge and looked out over the foredeck. After being treated by Ontarian medics, he had slept most of the preceding day. He felt almost normal now, except for a stiffness in his arm and side, and occasional attacks of vertigo.
He had studied naval types of the Twentieth Century quite thoroughly back home, and in many ways the Fearsome was a familiar craft. But there were differences. The Ontarian construction had a faintly crude, misshapen appearance. Standardized production techniques were only beginning to appear in the Confederacy. And without petroleum resources or coal, the nations of New Canada were forced to use vegetable oils or wood to fire their boilers—the greasy black smoke that spouted from the Fearsome’s stacks was enough to cause a queasy stomach even if his inner ear and the rolling sea were not. The ship had a huge crew. Apparently its auxiliary devices were not connected to the central power plant. Even the big deck guns needed work squads to turn and angle them. In a sense the Fearsome was a cross between a Roman galley and a 1910 battleship.
So far Chente’s jury-rigged plans had gone much more smoothly than he had dared to hope. At Balquirth’s direction, Colonel Maclen had shown him the maximum security storage bunker where Ontario’s five nuclear weapons were located. Only one was needed for this mission, but the Earthman had been allowed to check the missiles’ drive units in making his selection. Apparently, neither Maclen or Balquirth realized that a simple adjustment of the drive unit could render the bomb itself permanently unusable. It had taken Chente only a moment to so adjust four of the five weapons.
Now the hastily formed Ontarian fleet was under full steam, with the bomb launch less than an hour away. In addition to the Fearsome, the fleet contained the battleship Covenant and two large cruisers—essentially as protection for that one bomb. When they were within missile range of the Providencians the Ontarian fleet would turn away, and Balquirth and Chente would take the bomb aboard the motorized boat which now sat near the Fearsome’s stern. Not until then would Chente be allowed to touch the bomb’s trigger.
Chente looked down at Martha, who sat beside him on the bridge, gazing fixedly out at the ocean. Her wrists had been manacled, but when the sea got choppy, Admiral Trudeau had removed the cuffs so that she could more easily keep her balance. She had not spoken a single word for the last three hours, had seemed almost like a disinterested spectator. Chente touched her shoulder, but she continued to ignore him.
The starboard hatch opened and Balquirth, dressed now in utility coveralls and a slicker, stepped onto the bridge. He spoke briefly with Trudeau, then approached the Earthman. “We’ve got problems, Freeman. This storm has kicked up a bit faster than the weather people predicted. We can’t spot our fleet on the display, and the New Providencian force will be under cloud cover in another fifteen minutes.”
Chente shrugged, and the gesture brought a sharp pain to his side. “No matter. That satellite we’re reading from was also intended for navigation. It’s got radar powerful enough to scan the ocean. We’ll be able to keep track of the other fleet almost as easily as if there were no storm at all.”
“Ah, good. Let’s go below and take a look at the display, then. You said we could launch the missile from twenty-five kilometers out?”
“That’s the eff
ective range. Actually the bomb’s drive unit could push it much farther, but it wasn’t designed as a weapon, so it would be terrifically inaccurate at greater ranges.”
CHENTE AND BALQUIRTH LEFT the bridge and went carefully down the steep ladderway to the charthouse. The sky was completely overcast now, and a gathering squall obscured the horizon. He could barely make out the forms of the escort craft, far off to the side. The hard cold wind that sleeted across the Fearsome presaged the storm’s arrival.
The charthouse was hidden from the direct blast of the wind by several armored buttresses and a gun turret. Five armed seamen stood at the entrance; once they recognized Balquirth, there was no trouble getting inside. The charthouse itself was well insulated from the outside, as the instruments it housed required better care than men did. Balquirth had had all of Chente’s equipment stowed here, along with the communications bomb, a two-meter-long cylinder of black plastic that rested in a case of native velvet near the cabin’s interior bulkhead.
Maclen sat beside some bulky and primitive wireless equipment. The young colonel held a repeating slug gun at the ready position. He was the room’s only occupant. Apparently Pier trusted only his top aides with this Pandora’s box of Earthly artifacts.
“All secure, sir,” Maclen said. “I let the navigator take some charts but no one else has been by.”
“Very good, Colonel,” said Balquirth. “All right, Freeman, it’s all yours.”
Chente approached the brass chart table and the satellite receiver. He fiddled briefly with the controls, and the screen turned gray. A tiny point of light moved slowly from left to right across the top of the screen, then returned to the left margin and started across again. “That’s the scanning trace from the satellite. It’s illuminating a square kilometer as it moves across the ocean. The satellite’s maser isn’t powerful enough to light up a larger area, so the picture must be built up from a sequence of scans.” The tiny blip of light shifted down about a millimeter with each scan, but still nothing showed in its track. Finally, two golden blips appeared, and in the scan below that, another blip.
