by E. C. Tubb
Four hours after Chase came back, we lifted gravs from Earth. Chase was sitting in the control chair, and to give him credit, we lifted as smooth as a silk scarf slipping through the fingers of a pretty woman. We hypered at eight miles and swept up through the monochromes of Cth until we hit middle blue, when Chase slipped off the helmet, unfastened his webbing, and stood up.
“Take over, Mr. Marsden,” he said. “Lay a course for Parth.”
“Aye, sir,” I replied, slipping into the chair and fastening the web. I slipped the helmet on my head and instantly I was a part of the ship. It’s a strange feeling, this synthesis of man and metal that makes a fighting ship the metallic extension of the Commander’s will. I was conscious of every man on duty. What they saw I saw, what they heard I heard, through the magic of modern electronics. The only thing missing was that I couldn’t feel what they felt, which perhaps was a mercy considering the condition of the crew. Using the sensor circuits in the command helmet, I let my perception roam through the ship, checking the engines, the gun crews, the navigation board, the galley—all the manifold stations of a fighting ship. Everything was secure, the ship was clean and trimmed, the generators were producing their megawatts of power without a hitch, and the converters were humming contentedly, keeping us in the blue as our speed built to fantastic levels.
I checked the course, noted it was true, set the controls on standby and relaxed, half dozing in the chair as Lume after Lume dropped astern with monotonous regularity.
An hour passed and Halloran came up to relieve me. With a sigh of relief I surrendered the chair and headset. The unconscious strain of being in rapport with ship and crew didn’t hit me until I was out of the chair. But when it did, I felt like something was crushing me flat. Not that I didn’t expect it, but the “Lachesis” was worse than the “Clotho” had ever been.
I had barely hit my couch when General Quarters sounded. I smothered a curse as I pounded up the companionway to my station at the bridge. Chase was there, stopwatch in hand, counting the seconds.
“Set!” Halloran barked.
“Fourteen seconds,” Chase said. “Not bad. Tell the crew well done.” He put the watch in his pocket and walked away.
I picked up the annunciator mike and pushed the button. “Skipper says well done,” I said.
“He got ten seconds out of us once last trip,” Halloran said. “And he’s been trying to repeat that fluke ever since. Bet you a munit to an ‘F’ ration that he’ll be down with the section chief trying to shave off another second or two. Hey!—what’s that—oh…” He looked at me. “Disturbance in Cth yellow, straight down—shall we go?”
“Stop ship,” I ordered. “Sound general quarters.” There was no deceleration. We merely swapped ends as the alarm sounded, applied full power and stopped. That was the advantage of Cth—no inertia. We backtracked for three seconds and held in middle blue.
* * * *
“What’s going on?” Chase demanded as he came up from below. His eyes raked the instruments. “Why are we stopped?”
“Disturbance in Cth yellow, sir,” I said. “We’re positioned above it.”
“Very good, Mr. Marsden.” He took the spare helmet from the Exec’s chair, clapped it on, fiddled with the controls for a moment, nodded, and took the helmet off. “Secure and resume course,” he said. “That’s the ‘Amphitrite’—fleet supply and maintenance. One of our people.”
“You sure, sir?” I asked, and then looked at the smug grin on Halloran’s face and wished I hadn’t asked.
“Of course,” Chase said. “She’s a three converter job running at full output. Since the Rebels have no three converter ships, she has to be one of ours. And since she’s running at full output and only in Cth yellow, it means she’s big, heavy, and awkward—which means a maintenance or an ammunition supply ship. There’s an off phase beat in her number two converter that gives a twenty cycle pulse to her pattern. And the only heavy ship in the fleet with this pattern is ‘Amphitrite.’ You see?”
I saw—with respect. “You know all the heavies like that, sir?” I asked.
“Not all of them—but I’d like to. It’s as much a part of a scoutship commander’s work to know our own ships as those of the enemy.”
“Could that trace be a Rebel ruse?”
“Not likely—travelling in the yellow. A ship would be cold meat this far inside our perimeter. And besides, there’s no Rebel alive who can tune a converter like a Navy mechanic.”
“You sure?” I persisted.
“I’m sure. But take her down if you wish.”
I did. And it was the “Amphitrite.”
“I served on her for six months,” Chase said drily as we went back through the components. I understood his certainty now. A man has a feeling for ships if he’s a good officer. But it was a trait I’d never expected in Chase. I gave the orders and we resumed our band and speed. Chase looked at me.
“You acted correctly, Mr. Marsden,” he said. “Something I would hardly expect, but something I was glad to see.”
“I served under Andy Royce,” I reminded him.
“I know,” Chase replied. “That’s why I’m surprised.” He turned away before I could think of an answer that would combine insolence and respect for his rank. “Keep her on course, Mr. Halloran,” he tossed over his shoulder as he went out.
We kept on course—high and hard despite a couple of disturbances that lumbered by underneath us. Once I made a motion to stop ship and check, but Halloran shook his head.
“Don’t do it, sir,” he warned.
“Why not?”
“You heard the Captain’s orders. He’s a heller for having them obeyed. Besides, they might be Rebs—and we might get hurt shooting at them. We’ll just report their position and approximate course—and keep on travelling. Haskins is on the Dirac right now.” Halloran’s voice was sarcastic.
I didn’t like the sound of it, and said so.
“Well, sir—we won’t lose them entirely,” Halloran said comfortingly. “Some cruiser will investigate them. Chances are they’re ours anyway—and if they aren’t there’s no sense in us risking our nice shiny skin stopping them—even though we could take them like Lundy took Koromaja. Since the book doesn’t say we have to investigate, we won’t.” His voice was bitter again.
At 0840 hours on the fourth day out, my annunciator buzzed. “Sir,” the talker’s voice came over the intercom, “Lieutenants Marsden and Allyn are wanted in the Captain’s quarters.”
* * * *
Chase was there—toying with the seals of a thin, brown envelope. “I have to open this in the presence of at least two officers,” he said nodding at Allyn who came in behind me. “You two are senior on the ship and have the first right to know.” He slid a finger through the flap.
“Effective 12, Eightmonth, GY2964,” he read, “USN ‘Lachesis’ will proceed on offensive mission against enemy vessels as part of advance covering screen Fleet Four for major effort against enemy via sectors YD 274, YD 275, and YD 276. Entire Scouting Force IV quadrant will be grouped as Fleet Four Screen Unit under command Rear AdmiralSIMMS. Initial station ‘Lachesis’ coordinates X 06042 Y 1327 Betelgeuse-Rigel baseline. ETA Rendezvous point 0830 plus or minus 30, 13/8/64.
“A. Evars, Fleet Admiral USN Commanding.”
There it was! I could see Allyn stiffen as a peculiar sick look crossed Chase’s dry face. And suddenly I heard all the ugly little nicknames—Subspace Chase, Gutless Gus, Cautious Charley—and the dozen others. For Chase was afraid. It was so obvious that not even the gray mask of his face could cover it.
Yet his voice when he spoke was the same dry, pedantic voice of old. “You have the rendezvous point, Mr. Marsden. Have Mr. Esterhazy set the course and speed to arrive on time.” He dismissed us with the traditional “That’s all, gentlemen,” and we went out separate ways. I didn’t want to look at the triumphant smile on Allyn’s face.
We hit rendezvous at 0850, picked up a message from the Admiral at
0853, and at 0855 were on our way. We were part of a broad hemispherical screen surrounding the Cruiser Force which englobed the Line and supply train—the heavies that are the backbone of any fleet. We were headed roughly in the direction of the Rebel’s fourth sector, the one top-heavy with metals industries. Our exact course was known only to the brass and the computers that planned our interlock. But where we were headed wasn’t important. The “Lachesis” was finally going to war! I could feel the change in the crew, the nervousness, the anticipation, the adrenal responses of fear and excitement. After a year in the doldrums, Fleet was going to try to smash the Rebels again. We hadn’t done so well last time, getting ambushed in the Fifty Suns group and damn near losing our shirts before we managed to get out. The Rebs weren’t as good as we were, but they were trickier, and they could fight. After all, why shouldn’t they be able to? They were human, just as we were, and any one of a dozen extinct intelligent races could testify to our fighting ability, as could others not-quite-extinct. Man ruled this section of the galaxy, and someday if he didn’t kill himself off in the process he’d rule all of it. He wasn’t the smartest race but he was the hungriest, the fiercest, the most adaptable, and the most unrelenting. Qualities which, by the way, were exactly the ones needed to conquer a hostile universe.
But mankind was slow to learn the greatest lesson, that they had to cooperate if they were to go further. We were already living on borrowed time. Before the War, ten of eleven exploration ships sent into the galactic center had disappeared without a trace. Somewhere, buried deep in the billions of stars that formed the galactic hub, was a race that was as tough and tricky as we were—maybe even tougher. This was common knowledge, for the eleventh ship had returned with the news of the aliens, a story of hairbreadth escape from destruction, and a pattern of their culture which was enough like ours to frighten any thinking man. The worlds near the center of humanity’s sphere realized the situation at once and quickly traded their independence for a Federal Union to pool their strength against the threat that might come any day.
But as the Union Space Navy began to take shape on the dockyards of Earth and a hundred other worlds, the independent worlds of the periphery began to eye the Union with suspicion. They had never believed the exploration report and didn’t want to unite with the worlds of the center. They thought that the Union was a trick to deprive them of their fiercely cherished independence, and when the Union sent embassies to invite them into the common effort, they rejected them. And when we suggested that in the interests of racial safety they abandon their haphazard colonization efforts that resulted in an uncontrolled series of jumps into the dark, punctuated by minor wars and clashes when colonists from separate origins landed, more or less simultaneously, on a promising planet, they were certain we were up to no good.
Although we explained and showed them copies of the exploration ship’s report, they were not convinced. Demagogues among them screamed about manifest destiny, independence, interference in internal affairs, and a thousand other things that made the diplomatic climate between Center and Periphery unbearably hot. And their colonists kept moving outward.
Of course the Union was not about to cooperate in this potential race suicide. We simply couldn’t allow them to give that other race knowledge of our whereabouts until we were ready for them. So we informed each of the outer worlds that we would consider any further efforts at colonizing an unfriendly act, and would take steps to discourage it.
That did it.
* * * *
We halted a few colonizing ships and sent them home under guard. We uprooted a few advance groups and returned them to their homeworlds. We established a series of observation posts to check further expansion—and six months later we were at war.
The outer worlds formed what they called a defensive league and with characteristic human rationality promptly attacked us. Naturally, they didn’t get far. We had a bigger and better fleet and we were organized while they were not. And so they were utterly defeated at the Battle of Ophiuchus.
It was then that we had two choices. We could either move in and take over their defenseless worlds, or we could let them rebuild and get strong, and with their strength acquire a knowledge of cooperation—and take the chance that they would ultimately beat us. Knowing this, we wisely chose the second course and set about teaching our fellow men a lesson that was now fifteen years along and not ended yet.
By applying pressure at the right places we turned their attention inward to us rather than to the outside, and by making carefully timed sorties here and there about the periphery we forced them through sheer military necessity to gradually tighten their loosely organized League into tightly centralized authority, with the power to demand and obtain—to meet our force with counterforce. By desperate measures and straining of all their youthful resources they managed to hold us off. And with every strain they were welded more tightly together. And slowly they were learning through war what we could not teach through peace.
Curiously enough, they wouldn’t believe our aims even when captured crews told them. They thought it was some sort of tricky mental conditioning designed to frustrate their lie detectors. Even while they tightened their organization and built new fleets, they would not believe that we were forcing them into the paths they must travel to avoid future annihilation.
It was one of the ironies of this war that it was fought and would be fought with the best of intentions. For it was obvious now that we could never win—nor could they. The Rebels, as we called them, were every whit as strong as we, and while we enjoyed the advantages of superior position and technology they had the advantage of superior numbers. It was stalemate,—the longest, fiercest stalemate in man’s bloody history. But it was stalemate with a purpose. It was a crazy war—a period of constant hostilities mingled with sporadic offensive actions like the one we were now engaged in—but to us, at least, it was war with a purpose—the best and noblest of human purposes—the preservation of the race.
The day was coming, not too many years away, when the first of the aliens would strike the Outer worlds. Then we would unite—on the League’s terms if need be—to crush the invaders and establish mankind as the supreme race in the galaxy.
But this wasn’t important right now. Right now I was the Executive Officer of a scout ship commanded by a man I didn’t trust. He smelled too much like a stinking coward. I shook my head. Having Chase running the ship was like putting a moron in a jet car on one of the superhighways—and then sabotaging the automatics. Just one fearful mistake and a whole squadron could be loused up. But Chase was the commander—the ultimate authority on this ship. All I could do was pray that things were going to come out all right.
We moved out in the lower red. Battles weren’t fought in Cth. There was no way to locate a unit at firing range in that monochromatic madness. Normal physical laws simply didn’t apply. A ship had to come out into threespace to do any damage. All Cth was was a convenient road to the battlefront.
With one exception.
By hanging in the infra band, on the ragged edge of threespace, a scout ship could remain concealed until a critical moment, breakout into threespace—discharge her weapons—and flick back into Cth before an enemy could get a fix on her. Scouts, with their high capacity converters, could perform this maneuver, but the ponderous battlewagons and cruisers with their tremendous weight of armor, screens, and munitions couldn’t maneuver like this. They simply didn’t have the agility. Yet only they had the ability to penetrate defensive screens and kill the Rebel heavies. So space battle was conducted on the classic pattern—the Lines slugging it out at medium range while the screen of scouts buzzed around and through the battle trying to add their weight of metal against some overstrained enemy and ensure his destruction. A major battle could go on for days—and it often did. In the Fifty Suns action the battle had lasted nearly two weeks subjective before we withdrew to lick our wounds.
* * * *
For nearly a day we r
an into nothing, and such are the distances that separate units of a fleet, we had the impression that we were alone. We moved quietly, detectors out, scanning the area for a light-day around as we moved forward at less than one Lume through Cth. More would have been fatal for had we been forced to resort to a quick breakout to avoid enemy action, and if we were travelling above one Lume when we hit threespace, we’d simply disappear, leaving a small spatial vortex in our wake.
On the “morning” of the third day the ships at the apex of Quadrant One ran into a flight of Rebel scouts. There was a brief flurry of action, the Rebels were englobed, a couple of cruisers drove in, latched onto the helplessly straining Rebel scouts and dragged them into threespace. The Rebs kept broadcasting right up to the end—after which they surrendered before the cruisers could annihilate them. Smart boys.
