by Spoor,Ryk E
Simon sighed, but nodded. “Understood, Carl, Laila. And …you are right, that is what she would say.”
“I notice you did not say ‘Yes, Laila and Carl, I will not place myself in any significant danger that I can possibly avoid,’” Laila said.
Kuso.
“Give it up, Simon. They’ve noticed you have a tendency to play hero when given the chance,” Oasis said with a smile. “But they’re right.”
“Yes. I know. Very well, Laila, Carl, I accept your conditions and I will not place myself in any significant danger that I can reasonably avoid. I will not say possibly because there are many things that are possible that are not reasonable.”
The two looked at him for a long moment, then looked at each other and shrugged. “All right, Simon. Good enough.”
“I also intend—if you still approve—to conduct the briefing we discussed.”
“Definitely,” Carl said promptly, and Laila added her own nod. “We need all the edge we can get, and while the results will be ones that the Molothos would notice, they shouldn’t have the faintest clue as to what the explanation is, which is really the important part, right?”
“I would say so, yes. The same applies of course to my talent; they will see the primaries, and note that we seem, well, impossibly well-coordinated, but they should have no way of even guessing why this is so …which will mean the advantage remains ours.”
“Is that all?” Laila asked. At his own nod, she took a breath, let it out. “Get moving, then. And, Simon…”
He saw and understood the glance of concern and comradeship that went back to the time he had gone to her, rather than anyone else in the crew, for advice, and he smiled as she finished, “…good luck to us all.”
“Thank you, Laila,” he said, picking up his pack. “On my way.”
Oasis matched his longer strides easily—not surprising, given what she was. “And,” she said as they exited the Embassy of Humanity, “I’ll make sure you stick to your promise.”
He smiled down at her, and gave the practiced flip of his head that sent his white hair up and cascading in a silver waterfall back into place. “I expected you would. That’s why I agreed; I wasn’t going to get a choice. But …I also know that you understand when the other choice might be necessary.”
“Always. It’s my job, I guess you could say.”
They flagged down one of the cruising hover-taxis and in moments were at the massive elevators that took them to the same level as Transition. It was busy, and the elevator up was moderately crowded; he and the flame-haired Hyperion stood towards the back and near each other. He noticed her eyes scanning the surrounding people ceaselessly. Is this the way it is for all Hyperions, he wondered. Unending vigilance, or paranoia, along with the isolation of their nature?
The doors opened and they slowly emerged onto the Transition level. Like all of Nexus Arena, this level was built on a titanic scale, ranks of elevators large enough to carry an entire mansion serving what amounted to a spaceport for ten thousand destinations. Crowds of hundreds of species moved, ebbed, and flowed like waves in tide, ebbing and flowing with an unending yet ever-changing rhythm.
Oasis led the way, confidently cutting a path through the crowd with a more subtle yet no less strong force of personality than DuQuesne’s. Simon glanced around, surveying the immensity as they moved forward. He was more nervous than he had wanted to show anyone, even—or perhaps especially, Oasis. No matter what they say, or I promise, I am going into a war zone, a battle that I know little about, and I will be in grave danger from the very instant the battle starts.
He suddenly caught a flash of white in the distance. For an instant he considered being silent, but realized that even at a moment like this, Oasis would never forgive him if he did not speak. “Oasis—to your left, about …ten o’clock.”
There was the barest hint of a hitch in her stride, then she continued moving forward. “I see it. We can’t afford the time or risk of pursuit, if it is him. Laila,” she continued, and a green comm-ball materialized instantly, “Simon and I believe we have spotted Fairchild near Transition, heading for the observation area to the left as you are approaching Transition. Send whoever you can, but I doubt you’ll catch him.”
Simon looked at her face, so fixed with angry focus that it looked like a white-carven statue of determination. As the comm-ball vanished, he said, quietly, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. Not your fault.” She forced a smile, then managed a laugh that was a tiny bit more natural. “Hey, it’s not the first time I’ve let a villain get away because the world needed saving more than they needed their beating.”
“The scenario wasn’t uncommon for you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Simon, we were based on heroes of fiction, and mostly really heroic fiction at that. A lot of us from long-runner shows, sims, whatever. So yeah, common. If the Big Bad gets caught on his first outing, well, what do you do for the rest of the series?”
“I didn’t mean to touch a nerve.”
They were approaching one of the gigantic circular Inner Gateways that were the center of Transition. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Simon.” She took his hand and squeezed it for a moment before letting go. “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m terrified of him, and I’m going to have to face him to get over it. And I’m not used to being scared of things, really. Oh, I got a lot of jump-scares at times, but existential fear? Not really my thing. So this gives me the total creeps sometimes.”
“I can’t blame you, Oasis. With what he did, and tried to do? I would be terrified of him myself.”
A moment of freezing heat and flashing darkness, and they stepped out into the foyer of the Sphere of Humanity, now fully equipped as a secure checkpoint for personnel and cargo both. The guards recognized Simon immediately—although Simon still felt the ID ping query on his headware—and let them both through. “You know the way, sir,” said one he recognized, saluting.
“Thank you, Sergeant Byrne. I do know the way.”
The atmosphere here was different, tense, hurried and grim. The bustle of work parties, of casual merchants as they passed through the larger rooms along their path, were almost gone, and what remained was subdued. Anyone non-essential has been evacuated. We believe that there is no way for the Molothos to force their way into the Sphere …but if anyone does know how to do it, the Molothos do, and they will use that—or perhaps try to force someone they capture to do it for them.
The Upper Gateway’s chamber was vastly larger than he recalled, and filled with more military hardware than Simon had ever seen outside of a simgame. Soldiers, armed drones waiting in arrays, fixed emplacements aimed at the actual Gateway itself, every possible internal defense was set and ready. I wonder how they enlarged the room? The exterior and interior walls are of CQC, which is beyond our capability to work or even destroy without nuclear weapons or something on that scale. Perhaps Ariane simply directed it to be so; the Arena seems quite accommodating to Leaders of Factions in their home areas.
“Whoa, check it out,” Oasis said, staring as they exited the Upper Gateway.
“Subarashi,” Simon said in agreement.
Massive fortifications had been erected surrounding the Upper Gateway, with batteries of anti-aircraft cannon, rocket launchers, gargantuan energy weapons, and—visible below—multiple airstrips. “I had seen this in progress previously, but it truly is impressive now that it is complete.”
“Nowhere near complete,” said a familiar voice; Simon turned and saw a tall woman with green and blue hair in a military cut, wearing the uniform of a General in the CSF.
“General Esterhauer? What are you doing here?”
General Jill Esterhauer shook his hand and returned Oasis’ salute. “I will be directing the ground-based defenses for our Sphere. Follow me, please—I’ll escort you to your fleet transfer shuttle personally.”
After a few moments, she glanced at him. “I am given to understand that you will be providing overall in
telligence to the entire fleet and ground forces during the battle. May I ask how?”
Simon hesitated. “General …that is, I am afraid, need-to-know information, and you do not need to know it. Yet. All you need to know is that Captain Austin is aware of how, and that my …source is absolutely reliable both in general and in fine detail. If I tell you about a coming assault and its direction and composition, that information will be precisely correct.”
He could see her studying the small amount of baggage he and Oasis carried. Probably trying to figure out what kind of super-gadget I could be carrying that would do all that. She’s certainly aware of the primary beams—several of the energy cannon up there are gigantic primaries, which took me days to set up—but even there, she doesn’t know how it works.
The General sighed. “I suppose you’re right. If the intelligence is reliable, I don’t really care if you’re getting it by spies, remote sensors, or tarot cards. If I understand all my briefings, though …we are, basically, screwed.”
“I will admit that it does not look good for us, General,” Simon answered, as they made their way up to the overlooking plateau. “But we do have our allies waiting for the signal torpedo to be sent, and they will be on high alert once I arrive. While they will not even the odds, we have a few other advantages which you are already aware of.”
Esterhauer nodded. “Your primary beams, for one. Although I am still utterly at sea as to why you are the only one allowed to install the systems.”
“I wish it could be otherwise. But there is that advantage, and of course the advantage of the intelligence I will be providing.”
Oasis was surveying the area now with the practiced air of someone used to watching for danger. She’s taken her role as my protector seriously. And …that does make me feel safer.
Esterhauer was studying him with the eye of a hawk sizing up a competitor. “You seem the crux of things in multiple ways, Doctor. In a sense, you even started this whole thing.”
He blinked, then laughed. “Yes, I suppose I did.” He looked up. “Ah, there’s the Yeager.”
The blunt, stubby shuttle waited on the magnetic launch rail; unlike the long, sleek forms common in low-mach vehicles, high-hypersonic vehicles—even ones using modern materials—tended to stolid and simple forms dictated by the hideous pressures and temperatures experienced by surfaces traveling at Mach numbers in the double digits. Yaeger would take them the ten thousand kilometers or so to the waiting fleet in less than an hour.
In itself, that told him how close the battle was. If the Molothos had a clear line of sight to our Sphere, they could be here, even limited by lower ultrasonic speeds, in mere hours. They could get that line of sight …any time now.
“She’s prepped and ready to launch immediately,” Esterhauer said. “Anything you need to do beforehand?”
“No, no. Get us up there as fast as possible.”
“Will do. Your destination is Andraste, yes?”
“Andraste?” Simon paused a moment before he recalled that the fleet had been renamed to a consistent pattern of Earthly war gods—Joani Cleary’s Paksenarrion had become Hachiman, and Andraste had originally been called Orion, if he remembered aright. “The flagship, yes.”
The boarding ramp to Yeager was already open, and he and Oasis jogged up and took their seats; he heard the General in the cockpit: “Get them up to Andraste as fast as you possibly can. I want them to think a meteor’s on its way.”
A low chuckle. “I’ll do my best,” came a slightly rough voice that Simon thought he recognized.
“Hawke? Is that you?”
The former racing pilot—Ariane’s biggest rival on the racing circuit—turned in his seat enough so that he could nod to Simon. “Been a while, hasn’t it, Doc? Since you stole Ariane from her own victory party, that is?”
“It has.”
General Esterhauer gave both Oasis and Simon a quick salute. “Good luck, both of you.” She disappeared out the hatch.
Simon raised an eyebrow at Hawke. “I thought you were going to be a combat pilot.”
“Sure am,” he said, turning back to the controls; the hatch door was sliding closed. “Yeager’s gonna stay onboard Andraste. I’ll be flying your flagship.”
“Then I know we’ll be in good hands.”
“Fast ones, anyway. Though those big-ass ships are sure a change and a half from racers; regardless, turns out people like me are still the best at flying them, leastwise so far. Probably get better pilots once we finish training people from the start to run these big boats.” He raised his voice. “Sphere Control, this is Yeager, requesting priority launch clearance for least-time flight to Andraste, currently at Sky Gate Control.”
“Yeager, you are cleared to launch at any time. All other traffic is well away from your flight path and you have top priority.”
“Understood, Control. Launching momentarily.”
With a roar audible through the soundproofing, Yeager’s rockets kicked her skyward, pressing Simon into the cushioned seat with twice his own weight. The stubby vehicle bulled its way through the atmosphere, adjusting shape slightly to provide more lift at the lower airspeeds, but mostly using brute force to thunder its way up and through the sound barrier. A cough and sudden growl announced the ignition of the ramjets, which propelled Yeager ever faster, Mach 3, Mach 4, and then the sound shifted again, a distant howl as the engine reconfigured to a scramjet, supersonic air rammed through and then set aflame to send Yeager hurtling forward at meteoric speeds. Simon’s headware connected to the shuttles showed how the Sphere was dropping away below them with almost ludicrous alacrity.
Where is Andraste? he thought, and the local systems fed him the coordinates and relative location. Noting their current speed—which seemed to be nearly stable—Simon nodded in appreciation. He turned his head towards Oasis. “We’ll be there in well under one hour. Thirty-nine minutes, now.”
“Fast ship. I like it!” Her face became serious. “What about the Molothos?”
He closed his eyes. The god-like sight came far more easily now, and that was one of the things that worried him. But at the moment, that was something he needed.
The immense fleet of ships was easy to find, even without the instinctive knowledge that took his vision there; he knew the course they had been following. “They are starting to spread out, assuming some kind of attack formation. They have not yet cleared the heavy clouds that have blocked their path, but they will soon. I would presume that they will accelerate to attack at that time.”
“How long?”
He gauged their speed and distance within the cloud, looked along their heading; he could make out the luminaire, and now a faint dark hint of the Sphere. “Not days. Seven, eight hours, perhaps.”
“Damn.”
“Yes.”
Andraste soon became visible, first as a dot in a cloud of dots, then as one of a fleet of ten warships—the core of Humanity’s fleet, all of them adapted from the ships Orphan had gifted to Humanity. Orphan’s other ships hadn’t been suited to being front-line warships, but would be serving as tender and other support roles; unfortunately, the Tantimorcan vessels that Naraj had helped negotiate for were not yet complete. Smaller combat vessels—fighters, small missile-focused frigates, and so on—had been manufactured by human facilities, but the ultimate limit on numbers had been how many people were available to fly them.
With the memory of the Molothos fleet clear in his mind, Simon could see how terribly fragile and minute Humanity’s forces were, and he swallowed a lump of fear. I must not allow fear to override my thinking. Nor, alas, my compassion. Laila and Carl are right: I will have to send people to their deaths today, and the best I can hope for is that only a few thousand will die today. The worst…
The worst would be that he would see the entirety of Humanity’s forces, and those from the Analytic, wiped from the sky, and be forced to flee alive while all the rest of the defenders died.
We must not let it come to
that.
Yeager docked without incident, and Captain Fitzhugh met them as they debarked. “Doctor Sandrisson, Colonel Abrams, welcome aboard. The briefing room is ready as you requested. When do you expect we will deploy?”
“To get into proper position …I think we will have to begin soon. Captain, you will be in charge of overall fleet action as well as that of this vessel, yes?”
“Subject to your intelligence on enemy movements, yes.”
Simon nodded. “We have only a few hours, I believe, before the Molothos come into full view of our fleet and fortifications. Should we send the message torpedo now? Give our allies from the Analytic time to come through and integrate with our fleet?”
To his surprise, Captain Fitzhugh shook his head, slate blue-gray hair echoing the movement. “No.”
“No? Might I know—”
“Certainly. The other captains—and General Esterhauer, among others—have debated the overall strategy for this battle several times. I’ve personally spent a lot of time studying everything we have on the Molothos and trying to get inside their heads, if you know what I mean.”
“Perfectly, yes, Captain. Go on.”
Captain Fitzhugh led them through the corridors—although Simon, having been on all of these ships at least once, already knew the way. “Well, our conclusion was that these people absolutely won’t stop with just words. We have got to bloody their noses hard before there’s a chance they’ll pull up and listen.” His lips set tight for a moment, grim and worried. “And even then, none of us are giving high odds. But we’re as sure as we can be that unless we treat them like the proverbial mule, there’s no chance to cut this short.”
“Like the mule …? ” Simon repeated. For a moment he didn’t get it, then he remembered the old joke. “Ah. ‘First you have to get his attention,’ yes. And I suppose the primaries will do that.”
