Sinclair had more pull than most with the disparate elements of the New American delegation. Perhaps he could help.
She arrived in the Hall, as she usually did these days, in the middle of a firestorm of debate. For the past month or so, discussion had centered on the issue of genies, on whether or not they could be—or should be—accorded the rights of full humans. That fight had waxed hot, with Liberty and Rainbow taking opposite poles on the issue and attempting to batter the rest of the delegations, by words if not by force, into choosing one side or the other.
Ten days ago that issue had been tabled. There were signs of growing strains within the fragile Confederation. The Emancipator Party of Liberty had demanded an addition to the Declaration, one proclaiming those supporting genie slavery to be “outlaw states, unworthy to sit with civilized men.” In reply, the Rainbow delegation had threatened to walk out if genies were allowed to vote or given representation in Congress. Sinclair and the other moderates had hoped to give both sides some time to cool off and consider their positions… and options.
What followed, though, had exploded even hotter, a nova’s flare of recriminations and ill-feeling. Why was it, colonies like Nowakiyev and Canton and Deseret wanted to know, that the hotheads of sister colonies like Liberty insisted on complete dissolution of all ties with the mother empire? The Reconciliationists, as they were coming to be known, wanted to effect a repair of relations between the various Frontier worlds and the rest of the Hegemony. Surely, reform could be won through negotiation, while the only result of war would be the absolute and total destruction of everything Man had built on the Frontier.
Palming her ID into a final security station interface, she waited for the door to dissolve. Duane Lassiter’s 3-D image dominated the central display in the amphitheater beyond. A delegate from the Frontier world of Eostre, he spoke Inglic; a wholehearted Reconciliationist, he spoke with desperate, articulate passion.
“Do you actually believe,” he was saying as Katya entered the Hall, “that a mere handful of systems can survive on their own, with no trade with the Hegemony? Cut off, isolated from the rest of humanity… for mark me, such would be the fate of worlds who turned against their brethren.
“Worse, would war with the Hegemony pit New Americans against Cantonese and Ukrainians in a bloody civil war, brother against brother, father against son? The fratricide of civil war, I tell you, has always been the bloodiest, bitterest, and most genocidal war of all.…”
Katya tuned out the speech as she descended the walkway to the seating area of the New American delegation. She’d heard that speech, or variations on its themes, time after time in the past month, and each time the words conjured images of her parents, and the rift between them and herself.
The Reconciliationists made a powerful point: it would be better to live in peace with Empire and Hegemony. The only trouble was, who was going to get the Empire to agree to those terms? “The Emperor has declared us to be in rebellion,” Sinclair had announced during one memorable reply to a recent Reconciliationist speech. “Perhaps it is time that we did as well!”
But still, the talking, the wrangling went on.
She slipped into the seat next to Sinclair.
“Katya!” he said, half turning. “It’s been a while. I thought we’d lost you!”
She blinked back tiredness. “If you do, General, it’s because I’ve gone sound asleep in one of my striders. Switched off and powered-down. Can we talk?”
“Now?”
“Any time in the next couple of hours.”
“That might be a good idea,” he said, his brow furrowing with concern. “Go up to my office and take a nap. You look done-in, lass. Tsuked out.”
She managed a smile. Tsukarasu was the Nihongo for tired, “tsuked out” a recent and popular bit of derivative Frontier slang.
“Shinda-tsuked” she said, adding the Nihongo word for “dead.” She held up her hands, stained so black from silicarb and lubegel that the interwoven wires of her embedded interface seemed to gleam against her left palm with a light of their own. “I may never be clean again. But anyway, I can’t really afford the nap. Thanks just the same. Actually, I could download what I need to your desk system, or maybe talk it over with your analogue.”
Sinclair’s analogue was a computer program duplicating enough of his memory and personality to serve as a stand-in and personal secretary during routine ViRcommunications and conferencing. Under most circumstances, it was impossible to tell an analogue from the human himself.
“Hell, Katya, you don’t want to talk to him. He’s got delusions of grandeur, complete technomegalomania. C’mon. We’ll talk now… but only if you’ll promise me to get some sleep. I can’t afford to lose you, you know.”
“General, with all due respect, you don’t know what you’re asking. I—” She stopped. The Hall had just gone very quiet. A military officer was now in quiet, urgent conference with the speaker. The silence lengthened, then dissolved in a gradually expanding ripple of low-voiced murmurs. Something was happening. But what?
“Fellow delegates,” Lassiter said after a long moment had passed. “I, uh, I’ve just been given rather disturbing news. A large, a—uh—a very large Imperial war fleet has just been sighted dropping out of K-T space on the boundaries of our system. Initial reports are fragmentary at best, but the word is that elements of the local militia space forces challenged the fleet and were swept aside. The fleet is now en route to New America and is expected to arrive within twenty to thirty hours.
“It seems the Imperials are responding to the challenge, gentle people. They’ve come to debate the question of independence with us in person.”
“Kuso!” Katya groaned. “And just when you’d about convinced me to take that nap.…”
Chapter 7
In pre-spaceflight days, air superiority was the watchword for the massive military contests on the ground in Europe and the Middle East, even those where heavy armor was the deciding tactical arm. Dai Nihon’s conquest of space gave a new dimension to the tactical balance: space superiority. Today, it is axiomatic that control of a planet’s surface can only be achieved through control of circumambient space.
—Armored Combat: A Modern Military Overview
Heisaku Ariyoshi
C.E. 2523
Donryu meant Storm Dragon, and she was flagship of Kawashima’s Ohka Squadron. Nine hundred meters long, massing nearly two million tons, she was a Dai Nihon dragonship, one of only nine such vessels in the entire Shichiju. Though she was as swift within the K-T plenum as her smaller consorts, in normal space she had a maximum acceleration of less than half a G and a combat maneuverability that led her crew to call her o-yuseisan, “honored planet,” or, in a more bantering tone, Shiri-omo, “Heavy Ass.” Indeed, her core shielding had begun service as a small, nano-shaped planetoid, and her crew of six thousand was larger than the population of some outpost worlds.
In combat, however, she was not expected to maneuver. Her vast size reflected the massiveness of her Quantum Power Tap; she could generate a harmonically tuned singularity pair massive enough to leak 1013 joules through her skyscraper-sized converters—some ten thousand gigawatts per second—most of which was required simply to move her ponderous bulk through space. More than enough energy was left over, however, to power her batteries of charged particle and neutron guns, and the exhaust of her plasma drive alone could theoretically sterilize a planet. Her primary long-range weapon, however, was the carrier wing of sentoki, the sleek, highly maneuverable air-space interceptors popularly called space fighters.
There was nothing, nothing throughout the Shichiju to match these Ryu-class carriers. They’d been conceived and constructed during the first four decades of the twenty-sixth century, when the Imperium recognized that the Xenophobes posed a serious threat to humankind but still believed that the alien foe must possess some sort of powerful space fleet in order to spread the Xeno infestations from world to world. That theory had been disproved
by the Alyan Expedition, of course, but the Ryus remained a visible symbol of Imperial power, prowess, and invincibility… and the ultimate threat to any challenge of Imperial authority.
There would be no further challenge of that authority, not after 26 Draconis was brought back into the Hegemony’s fold.
Jefferson was dissolving into chaos. Though the government’s first impulse had been to withhold from the public the news that an Imperial fleet was in-system, word had leaked out within minutes through a hundred separate sources. Now, mobs of people filled the parks and walkways between Jefferson’s archaic glass towers, like brightly colored rivers lapping between blue and silver cliffs. A giant towered above them; a five-story display screen raised along the side of the Weiler Building overlooking Franklin Park was replaying Duane Lassiter’s announcement of the fleet’s arrival. As Katya crossed the park, the image of the Eostran delegate seemed to be speaking directly to her, even though she couldn’t hear the words. For that, you needed a newslink feed pressed against your palm interface, or, if you had T-sockets, a ViRcom plugged in and tuned to the appropriate channel. Half of the city’s population, Katya estimated, must be ’faced in by now, as the world’s news services downloaded megabytes of news, sound, picture, and virtual reality, to the panicky crowds.
Katya was amused, in a sour way, that the news services, which had taken surprisingly little interest in the proceedings in the Hall of Congress during the past weeks, had been out in force since Lassiter’s announcement. Reporters and sensors for all the major ViRnews downloaders had invaded the former Sony Building, seeking sensory downloads from anyone who’d had anything to do with the proceedings in the Hall of Congress, but most especially with General Sinclair.
He’d told Katya what he wanted her to do—she’d had troubles of her own getting past the media’s sensorecorders—then slipped out with a small retinue through the building’s sublevel flitter parking garage. His destination was the command center in the mountains to the northwest; Katya would complete her assignment here for him, then join her unit at Port Jefferson.
Overhead, an incoming ascraft scratched a white contrail across the sky. They were already starting to abandon New America’s orbital station—the military personnel assigned there, at any rate. There were far too many civilians aboard to evacuate them all before the Japanese fleet arrived. The only hope was to abandon the station to them without a fight and hope the Imperial authorities simply occupied it rather than choosing to make some sort of example of its several thousand inhabitants.
No, Highport’s population should be safe enough. If the Imperials wanted to create an object lesson, they would find the educational material for that lesson here, on the ground.
The giant was still silently gesturing at her, but she escaped his scrutiny when she descended an escalator into a fabricrete cavern, an entrance to Jefferson’s subsurface maglev network. She didn’t follow the holographic arrows or the nervous crowds of people toward the train boarding tubes, however, but turned instead down a side passageway. After threading her way through a tangle of bare runnels dripping with condensation, she palmed an ID access interface that took her past two New American militia guards in combat armor and through a massive door marked “Authorized Personnel Only.”
The underground complex was one of several Confederation strong points in the city. “Good afternoon, Colonel.” A final checkpoint blocked her way, three men in armor, one with a bulky squad support plasma gun.
“Hello, Captain Adyebo,” Katya said, offering her hand for another interface. As a security AI probed her personal RAM through her palm circuitry, a life-size holo of her own head and shoulders materialized in the air, slowly turning.
“So, what’s the word?” Katya asked. “Am I me?”
Adyebo’s teeth flashed white against his dark face as he accessed her ID. “Looks like, Colonel. What can we do for you?”
“I just need to check on Fred,” she said. “Then I’ll be making arrangements to move him.”
“Very good. I’d hate to think of the Impies getting hold of him.” The nano of the door blurred to transparency, then dispersed. “Go on through.”
Inside an otherwise empty storeroom, an egg-shaped travel pod rested in a cradle, illuminated by overhead fluorescents. Approaching the pod, Katya reached out with her left hand, palming a small touchplate in the slick, nangineered metal. With a thought, relayed through her cephlink and the circuitry in her hand, she transmitted a code to the simpleminded electronics of the egg. Part of that golden surface rippled like water, then dilated open.
Black motion glistened within, catching the overhead lights with shimmering, prismatic glistenings, like rainbows on a puddle of oil. With a mingling of awe and fear, Katya stared into the writhing substance of what had been, until very recently, Mankind’s deadly and implacable enemy.
Xenophobes.
“Not Xenophobes,” Katya reminded herself aloud. Xenophobe, of course, was a human name for an entity that had no label for itself other than a concept that seemed to translate as “Self.” Now that peaceful communications had finally been established with at least two of the strange, corporate beings, a new name had been coined for them to avoid the biases of fear and bloodstained mistrust that still clung to the old.
“Naga,” the name of a race of wise, benevolent, and nonviolent serpent deities in Hindu mythology, seemed apt. Xenophobe war machines were huge, serpentine bioconstructs, classified by type and named after poisonous Terran reptiles. Hostile colonies were still called Xenos, but with this Naga’s help, perhaps the Confederation would be able to win more of the vast, dark beings into an alliance unlike any before known to Man.
It would be a while before she could easily think of these things as anything other than “Xenophobes,” however. Mastering an unsteady queasiness at the sight, Katya leaned against the cool, nangineered slickness of the travel pod next to the opening and peered inside.
The… creature?creatures?… within moved with a liquid, slithering sound. The travel pod contained only a tiny fragment of the Eridu Naga, about one ton of the original creature’s mass, budded from the parent and brought here to New America, months ago. Because the bud contained patterns of data stored by the parent, Confederation xenobiologists had suggested that it might be possible to use this fragment to communicate with other, still-hostile Xenophobes.
It was an exciting idea, one with great promise.
Assuming “Fred,” as his human attendants called him, didn’t fall into Imperial hands in the meantime.
Despite his nickname, Katya still couldn’t look at the entity without a twinge of revulsion. Each individual unit, or cell looked like nothing so much as a lump of tar or grease adrift in a black and viscous liquid, slug-shaped, the size of a man’s head and massing perhaps a kilogram or so. Filaments twisted within the liquid, joining each cell to its neighbors in an alien analogue of human neurons and dendrites. Individually, the Xeno units were no more intelligent than the electronics in Katya’s cephlink, responding to outside stimuli with all the insight and rationality of a flatworm. Together, however, they formed a colony creature with an intelligence that was almost certainly far greater than human.
Any uncertainty in that classification was due not to doubt about the being’s intelligence, but to its sheer difference. Xenos didn’t think like humans. With group-memories spanning millennia, possessing a bewildering array of alien senses but lacking both sight and hearing, and with a worldview of the universe literally inside-out from the human perspective, Xenophobes’ awareness of their surroundings simply could not be defined in human terms.
Without even a common means of perceiving the universe around them, it was small wonder humans and Xenos had blundered into a war that had lasted some forty-four years now. They’d been found on several planets colonized by man, subterranean organisms, thermovores drinking the heat of a world’s core, dwelling in caverns and passageways eaten out of solid rock. Over the course of hundreds of centuries,
they multiplied in those caverns, spreading out, seeping through the joints and crevices between strata, reproducing until each colony was a single titanic organism massing as much as a small moon, a vast network threaded through much of the planet’s crust.
If the things had just remained underground there would have been no conflict with humans, but eventually pieces of these planetary organisms had risen from their chthonic bastions, drawn by the vast concentrations of pure metals and artificial materials that made up human cities. Several colony worlds—An-Nur II, Lung Chi, Herakles—had eventually been evacuated, abandoned to the Xeno scourge.
For four decades, humans had been fighting back, with cephlink-piloted warstriders, with orbital laser banks and HEMILCOM battle stations, and eventually with nuclear depth charges sent burrowing into the Xenophobes’ sub-surface lairs along channels of magnetically deformed rock. On a few infested worlds, on Loki and on alien, far-distant Alya A-VI, the Xenophobes had been obliterated, and the cities were being rebuilt.
Only now, after contact with the alien DalRiss of Alya A and B, was it possible to communicate with the things.
A DalRiss cornel was waiting for her in a cylinder mounted beside the travel pod. Rolling up her left sleeve, Katya thumbed the cylinder open. Wet, glistening gelatin was revealed within, and she carefully pushed her hand and bare forearm into the amorphous mass. Sensing her body warmth, the cornel molded itself to her skin. Its touch was cold and surprisingly dry. Like the Naga, the cornel was a thermovore, feeding on Katya’s body heat.
The Xenos, with their direct cell-to-cell networking, possessed nothing like a human language, and communication had been possible only through an intermediate agency, the sheath of translucent, alien tissue now covering Katya’s left hand and forearm like a rubber glove.
She flexed her fingers within the creature’s velvet embrace. The cornel was a living construct grown and programmed through the biological wizardry of yet another nonhuman intelligence, the DalRiss of distant Alya. Exactly how they managed that still seemed little short of magic, so far as human biologists could determine, but the DalRiss had been in constant contact—and warfare—with the Xenophobes infesting their two worlds for tens of thousands of years. Evidently, they’d learned a great deal about the enemy which they were as yet unable to communicate to humans.
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