Zones of Thought Trilogy

by Vernor Vinge

  Johanna Haugen was the first to achieve synch with the new targets. Glimfrelle opened the main window on the Lynsnar‘s data stream: The view was almost natural, a night sky of slowly shifting stars. The target was less than thirty million kilometers from Lynsnar, but about a millisecond out of synch. Haugen was arriving just before or just after the other had jumped.

  “Drones away,” Haugen’s voice said. Now they had a true view of Lynsnar from a few meters away, from a camera aboard one of the first weapons drones launched. The ship was barely visible, a darkness obscuring the stars beyond—a great fish in the depths of an endless sea. A fish that was now giving spawn. The picture flickered, Lynsnar disappearing, reappearing, as the drone lost synch momentarily. A swarm of blue lights spilled from the ship’s hold. Weapon drones. The swarm hung by Lynsnar, calibrating itself, orienting on the enemy.

  The light faded from around Lynsnar as the drones moving fractionally out of synch in space and time. Tirolle opened a window on a hundred-million klick sphere centered at Lynsnar. The target vessel was a red dot that flickered around the sphere like a maddened insect. Lynsnar was stalking prey at eight thousand times the speed of light. Sometimes the target disappeared for a second, synch almost lost; other times Lynsnar and the target merged for an instant as the two craft spent a tenth of a second at less than a million kilometers remove. What could not be accurately displayed was the disposition of the drones. The spawn diffused on a myriad trajectories, their sensors extended for sign of the enemy ship.

  “What about the target, is it swarming back? Do you need back up?” said Svensndot. Tirolle gave a Dirokime shrug. What they were watching was three light-years away. No way he could know.

  But Jo Haugen replied, “I don’t think my bogie is swarming. I’ve lost only five drones, no more’n you’d expect from fratricide. We’ll see—” She paused, but Lynsnar’s trace and signal remained strong. Kjet looked out the other windows. Five of Aniara were already engaged and three had completed swarm deploy. Nuwen looked on silently from Out of Band. The godshatter had had its way, and now Kjet and his people were committed.

  And now good news and bad came in very fast:

  “Got him!” from Jo Haugen. The red dot in Lynsnar‘s swarm was no more. It had passed within a few thousand kilometers of one of the drones. In the milliseconds necessary to compute a new jump, the drone had discovered its presence and detonated. Even that would not have been fatal if the target had jumped before the blast front hit it; there had been several near misses in earlier seconds. This time the jump did not reach commit in time. A mini-star was born, one whose light would be years in reaching the rest of the battle volume.

  Glimfrelle gave a rasping whistle, an untranslatable curse, “We just lost Ablsndot and Holder, Boss. Their target must have counter-swarmed.”

  “Send in Gliwing and Trance.” Something in the back of his head curled up in horror. These were his friends who were dying. Kjet had seen death before, but never like this. In police action, no one took lethal chances except in a rescue. And yet… he turned from the field summary to order more ships on a target that had acquired defending vessels. Tirolle was moving in others on his own. Ganging up on a few nonessential targets might lose in the long run, but in the short term … the enemy was being hurt. For the first time since the fall of Sjandra Kei, Commercial Security was hurting someone back.

  Haugen: “Powers, that guy was moving! Secondary drone got EM spectrum on the kill. Target was going 15000 kps true speed.” A rocket bomb ramping up? Damn. They should be postponing those till after they controlled the battlefield.

  Tirolle: “More kills, far side of battle volume. The enemy is repositioning. Somehow they’ve guessed which we’re after—”

  Glimfrelle: Triumph whistle.“Get’em, get’em—oops. Boss, I think Limmende has figured we’re coordinating things—”

  A new window had opened over Tirolle’s post. It showed the five million kilometers around Ølvira. Two other ships were there now: the window identified them as Limmende’s flag and one of the vessels that had not responded to Svensndot’s recruiting.

  There was an instant of stillness on Ølvira‘s command deck. The voices of triumph and panic coming from the rest of the fleet seemed suddenly far away. Svensndot and his crew were looking at death close up. “Tirolle! How long till swarm—”

  “They’re on us already—just missed a drone by ten milliseconds.”

  “Tirolle! Finish running current engagements. Glimfrelle, tell Lynsnar and Trance to chain command if we lose contact.” Those ships had already spent their drones, and Jo Haugen was known to all the other captains.

  Then the thought was gone, and he was busy coordinating Ølvira‘s own battle swarm. The local tactics window showed the cloud dissipating, taking on colors coded by whether they were lagging or leading in time relative to Ølvira.

  Their two attackers had matched pseudospeeds perfectly. Ten times per second all three ships jumped a tiny fraction of a light-year. Like rocks skipping across the surface of a pond, they appeared in real space in perfectly measured hops—and the distance between them at every emergence was less that five million kilometers. The only thing that separated them now was millisecond differences in

  jump times, and the fact the light itself could not pass between them in the brief time they spent at each jump point.

  Three actinic flashes lit the deck, casting shadows back from Svensndot and the Dirokimes. It was second-hand light, the display’s emergency signal of nearby detonation. Run like hell was the message any rational person should take from that awful light. It would be easy enough to break synch … and lose tactical control of Aniara fleet. Tirolle and Glimfrelle bent their heads away from the local window, shying from the glare of nearby death. Their whistling voices scarcely broke cadence, and the commands from Ølvira to the others continued. There were dozens of other battles going on out there. Just now Ølvira was the only source of precision and control available to their side. Every second they remained on station meant protection and advantage to Aniara. Breaking off would mean minutes of chaos till Lynsnar or Trance could pick up control.

  Nearly two thirds of Pham Nuwen’s targets were destroyed now. The price had been high, half of Svensdot’s friends. The enemy had lost much to protect those targets, yet much of its fleet survived.

  An unseen hand smashed Ølvira, driving Svensndot hard against his combat harness. The lights went out, even the glow from the windows. Then dim red light came from the floor. The Dirokimes were sihlouetted by one small monitor. ‘Rolle whistled softly, “We’re out of the game, Boss, least while it counts. I didn’t know you could get misses that near.”

  Maybe it wasn’t a miss. Kjet scrambled out of his harness and boosted across the room to float head-down over the tiny monitor. Maybe we’re already dead. Somewhere very close by a drone had detonated, the wave front reaching Ølvira before she jumped. The concussion had been the outer part of the ship’s hull exploding as it absorbed the soft-xray component of the enemy ordnance. He stared at the red letters marching slowly across the damage display. Most likely, the electronics was permanently dead; chances were they had all received a fatal dose of gamma. The smell of burnt insulation floated across the room on the ventilator’s breeze.

  “Iiya! Look at that. Five nanoseconds more and we wouldn’t have been clipped at all. We actually committed the jump after the front hit!” And somehow the electronics had survived long enough to complete the jump. The gamma flux through the command deck had been 300 rem, nothing that would slow them down over the next few hours, and easily managed by a ship’s surgeon. As for the surgeon and all the rest of the Ølvira‘s automation …

  Tirolle typed several long queries at the box; there was no voice recognition left. Several seconds passed before a response marched across the screen. “Central automation suspended. Display management suspended. Drive computation suspended.” Tirolle dug an elbow at his brother. “Hei, ‘Frelle, it looks like ‘Vira managed
a clean disconnect. We can bring most of this back!”

  Dirokimes were known for being drifty optimists, but in this case Tirolle wasn’t far from the truth. Their encounter with the drone bomb had been a one-in-billion thing, the tiniest fraction of an exposure. Over the next hour and a half, the Dirokimes ran reboots off the monitor’s hardened processor, bringing up first one utility and then another. Some things were beyond recovery: parsing intelligence was gone from the comm automation, and the ultradrive spines on one side of the craft were partially melted. (Absurdly, the burning smell had been a vagrant diagnostic, something that should have been disabled along with all the rest of Ølivra‘s automation.) They were far behind the Blighter fleet.

  … and there was still a Blighter fleet. The knot of enemy lights was smaller than before, but on the same unwavering trajectory. The battle was long over. What was left of Commercial Security was scattered across four light-years of abandoned battlefield; they had started the battle with numerical superiority. If they’d fought properly, they might have won. Instead they’d destroyed the vessels with significant real velocities—and knocked out only about half the others. Some of the largest enemy vessels survived. These outnumbered the corresponding Aniara survivors by more than four to one. Blight could have could have easily destroyed all that remained of Commercial Security. But that would have meant a detour from the pursuit, and that pursuit was the one constant in the enemy’s behavior.

  Tirolle and Glimfrelle spent hours reestablishing communications and trying to discover who had died and who might be rescued. Five ships had lost all drive capability but still had surviving crew. Some ships had been hit at known locations, and Svensndot dispatched vessels with drone swarms to find the wrecks. Ship-to-ship warfare was a sanitary, intellectual exercise for most of the survivors, but the rubble and the destruction were as real as in any ground war, only spread over a trillion times more space.

  Finally the time for miracle rescues and sad discoveries was passed. The SjK commanders gathered on a common channel to decide a common future. It might better have been a wake—for Sjandra Kei and Aniara fleet. Part way through the meeting, a new window appeared, a view onto the bridge of the Out of Band. Ravna Bergsndot watched the proceedings silently. The erstwhile “godshatter” was nowhere in evidence.

  “What more to do?” said Johanna Haugen. “The damn Butterflies are long gone.”

  “Are we sure we have rescued everyone?” asked Jan Trenglets. Svensndot bit back an angry reply. The commander of Trance had become a recording loop on that issue. He had lost too many friends in the battle; all the rest of his life Jan Trenglets would live with nightmares of ships slowly dying in the deep night.

  “We’ve accounted for everything, even to vapor,” Haugen spoke as gently as the words allowed. “The question is where to go now.”

  Ravna made a small throat-clearing sound, “Gentlemen and Ladies, if—”

  Trenglets looked up at her tranceived image. All his hurt transformed into a blaze of anger. “We’re not your gentlemen, slut! You’re not some princess we happily die for. You deserve our deadly fire now, nothing more.”

  The woman shrank from Trenglets rage. “I—”

  “You put us into this suicidal battle,” shouted Trenglets. “You made us attack secondary targets. And then you did nothing to help. The Blight is locked on you like a dumshark on a squid. If you had just altered your course the tiniest fraction, you could have thrown the Blighters off our path.”

  “I doubt that would have helped, sir,” said Ravna. “The Blight seems most interested in where we’re bound.” The solar system just fifty-five light-years beyond the Out of Band. The fugitives would arrive there just over two days before their pursuers.

  Jo Haugen shrugged. “You must realize what your friend’s crazy battle plan has done. If we had attacked rationally, the enemy would be a fraction of its present size. If it chose to continue, we might have been able to protect you at this, this Tines’ world.” She seemed to taste the strange name, wondering at its meaning. “Now … no way am I going to chase them there. What’s left of the enemy could wipe us out.” She glanced at Svensndot’s viewpoint. Kjet forced himself to look back. No matter who might blame Out of Band, it had been Group Captain Kjet Svensndot’s word that had persuaded the fleet to fight as they did. Aniara’s sacrifice had been ill-spent, and he wondered that Haugen and Trenglets and the others talked to him at all now. “Suggest we continue the business meeting later. Rendezvous in one thousand seconds, Kjet.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “Good.” Jo cut the link without saying anything more to Ravna Bergsndot. Seconds later, Trenglets and the other commanders were gone. It was just Svensndot and the two Dirokimes—and Ravna Bergsndot looking out her window from Out of Band.

  Finally, Bergsndot said, “When I was a little girl on Herte, sometimes we would play kidnappers and Commercial Security. I always dreamed of being rescued by your company from fates worse than death.”

  Kjet smiled bleakly, “Well, you got the rescue attempt,” and you not even a currently subscribed customer. “This was far the biggest gun fight we’ve ever been in.”

  “I’m sorry, Kje—Group Captain.”

  He looked into her dark features. A lass from Sjandra Kei, down to the violet eyes. No way this could be a simulation, not here. He had bet everything that she was not; he still believed she was not. Yet—“What does your friend say about all this?” Pham Nuwen had not been seen since his so-impressive godshatter act at the beginning of the battle.

  Ravna’s glance shifted to something off-camera. “He’s not saying much, Group Captain. He’s wandering around even more upset than your Captain Trenglets. Pham remembers being absolutely convinced he was demanding the right thing, but now he can’t figure out why it was right.”

  “Hmm.” A little late for second thoughts. “What are you going to do now? Haugen is right, you know. It would be useless suicide for us to follow the Blighters to your destination. I daresay it’s useless suicide for you, too. You’ll arrive maybe fifty-five hours before them. What can you do in that time?”

  Ravna Bergsndot looked back at him, and her expression slowly collapsed into sobbing grief. “I don’t know. I … don’t know.” She shook her head, her face hidden behind her hands and a sweep of black hair. Finally she looked up and brushed back her hair. Her voice was calm but very quiet. “But we are going ahead. It’s what we came for. Things could still work out… You know there’s something down there, something the Blight wants desperately. Maybe fifty-five hours is enough to figure out what it is and tell the Net. And … and we’ll still have Pham’s godshatter.”

  Your worst enemy? Quite possibly this Pham Nuwen was a construct of the Powers. He certainly looked like something built from a second-hand description of humanity. But how can you tell godshatter from simple nuttery?

  She shrugged, as if acknowledging the doubts—and accepting them. “So what will you and Commercial Security do?”

  “There is no Commercial Security anymore. Virtually all our customers got shot out from under us. Now we’ve killed our company’s owner—or at least destroyed her ship and those supporting her. We are Aniara Fleet now.” It was the official name chosen at the fleet conference just ended. There was a certain grim pleasure in embracing it, the ghost from before Sjandra Kei and before Nyjora, from the earliest times of the human race. For they were truly cast away now, from their worlds and their customers and their former leaders. One hundred ships bound for… “We talked it over. A few still wanted to follow you to Tines’ world. Some of the crews want to return to Middle Beyond, spend the rest of their lives killing Butterflies. The majority want to start the races of Sjandra Kei over again, some place where we won’t be noticed, some place where no one cares if we live.”

  And the one thing everyone agreed on was that Aniara must be split no further, must make no further sacrifices outside of itself. Once that was clear, it was easy to decide what to do. In the wake
of the Great Surge, this part of the Bottom was an incredible froth of Slowness and Beyond. It would be centuries before the zonographic vessels from above had reasonable maps of the new interface. Hidden away in the folds and interstices were worlds fresh from the Slowness, worlds where Sjandra Kei could be born again. Ny Sjandra Kei?

  He looked across the bridge at Tirolle and Glimfrelle. They were busy bringing the main navigation processors out of suspension. That wasn’t absolutely necessary for the rendezvous with Lynsnar, but things would be a lot more convenient if both ships could maneuver. The brothers seemed oblivious to Kjet’s conversation with Ravna. And maybe they weren’t paying attention. In a way, the Aniara decision meant more to them than to the humans of the fleet: No one doubted that millions of humans survived in the Beyond (and who knew how many human worlds might still exist in the Slowness, distant cousins of Nyjora, distant children of Old Earth). But this side of the Transcend, the Dirokimes of Aniara were the only ones that existed. The dream habitats of Sjandra Kei were gone, and with them the race. There were at least a thousand Dirokimes left aboard Aniara, pairs of sisters and brothers scattered across a hundred vessels. These were the most adventurous of their race’s latter days, and now they were faced with their greatest challenge. The two on Ølvira had already been scouting among the survivors, looking for friends and dreaming a new reality.

  Ravna listened solemnly to his explanations. “Group Captain, zonography is a tedious thing … and your ships are near their limits. In this froth you might search for years and not find a new home.”

  “We’re taking precautions. We’re abandoning all our ships except the ones with ramscoop and coldsleep capability. We’ll operate in coordinated nets; no one should be lost for more than a few years.” He shrugged. “And if we never find what we seek—”if we die between the stars as our life support finally fails“—well then, we will have still lived true to our name.”Aniara.“I think we have a chance.” More than can be said for you.