Superluminal

by Tony Daniel

  And, having regained control of the situation, we got down to business in earnest—the business of space warfare.

  Excerpt from

  The Journal of Spacer First Class Schweik

  I can’t say I’m sorry to see the Assholes go.

  Man, I was close to getting the boot along with them. Old bugger Lebedev almost caught me putting a “soap” virus in Tantager’s sleep-nest to help out the Assholes. The Assholes were no help, of course; after Tantager reported seeing me exit the scene of the crime posthaste, not one of them offered to give me an alibi. When it comes to true mischief, the Assholes were all minor leaguers. Mostly they just wanted to bitch, bitch, bitch and never do anything about it.

  It’s not that I was in agreement with the Assholes I was hanging with so much as that the Assholes were the only bunch around who were taking this bullshit with the bushel of salt it warrants. I mean—a gaggle of idiot-kid cloudships spending two hours of flying around in formation? That is so going to terrify Fucking Infinite Dictator Amés! Still, having some fun with the old commandant is one thing—a nice thing!—but spending your every waking hour bitching and outright refusing to do the stuff that is a pain but has to get done—cleaning up, gathering stones, that kind of shitwork …well, it’s a waste of good Fuck-Up if you ask me.

  The one great sin in my book is to waste good Fuck-Up. We’re only given so much of it in this life, and after we run out we have to goddamn do what the squares tell us and/or die in the process.

  Where the hell’s the fun in that?

  While there are many similarities between combat in space and naval and submarine warfare back on Earth, the two are not the same. The gravity is variable, and there are the problems of orbital mechanics. There is the fact that the sea sustains biological life and space seems designed to end it. All of us cloudships, no matter how far we are removed from being bipedal creatures, have delicate biological components that must be protected.

  But, for the most part, the elements for creating warriors remain the same. Fear, peer pressure, pain, and endless repetition of basic tasks to the point of numbness and beyond—these are the tools of drill instructors across all space and time. I employed them. Before I let my charges anywhere near the study of antimatter weaponry or strategy and tactics, I made damn sure they could all fly in a tight formation and instantly respond to my orders. I didn’t let them fire a shot until we were many months into the program.

  Excerpt from

  The Journal of Spacer First Class Stone

  This is unbearable. The excellence of the one should not be given up as a sacrifice to the mediocrity of the many. I am clearly head and shoulders above the rest of the riffraff here at this so-called academy. I should at the very least be afforded special privileges to engage in independent studies. What I really should be doing is learning how to fire upon and destroy the enemy. The thought of taking out a DIED cruiser fills my dreams. How dare those planet-stuck people come out and try to take away what the ship-folk have won with their own blood, sweat, and acumen?

  Of course, given this group of louts—with some notable exceptions—we’ll be lucky not to be blasted from the sky during our first skirmish with the foe.

  All the more reason to let me leave these losers behind and get on with my training! Is it not perfectly obvious to all but the most besotted collectivist that only an elite force can be effective in a pitched battle? And yet that doddering fool Lebedev—a friend of Father’s, true, and thus worthy of the respect we give the aged—is bent on a doomed egalitarian course of training for all of us.

  To take matters to their asymptotic worst, the commandant has assigned me to work with the two worst possible recruits of the whole sorry bunch. One is a deluded populist, and the other is a rapscallion who will most likely get us all killed with his self-destructive high jinks before all is said and done.

  Woe is me. I fear that we are doomed.

  Two

  JUPITER SYSTEM E-STANDARD 13:42, THURSDAY, JANUARY 16, 3017

  Jake Alaska was furious at General Sherman for being such a damn fool about Jupiter. It wasn’t that Sherman was a bad military man—on the contrary, he was clearly the best there was. No, it was Sherman’s pointless obstinacy when it came to the press. Of course, given the likes of Winny Hinge and her sort, he couldn’t really blame Sherman for being cautious. But to actively exclude and humiliate the merci press was an invitation to disaster.

  “This Io debacle’s going to cost the Old Crow his command,” Framstein Wallaby said as he sat down on Jake’s desk, splashing Jake’s coffee over a splayed pile of notebooks. The notebooks were impervious to the coffee, but still—

  “Hey, watch it,” said Jake. “Those are filled with actual, real facts that I saw with my own eyes.”

  “Your eye sockets are packed with everything but eyes,” Framstein answered. “Where do you actually do your seeing from? Oh, don’t tell me! Turn around and drop your pants.”

  “I like to keep an eye on my own ass,” Jake said. “And you might be right about Sherman. We’ve got to do something.”

  “What do you mean we , son? We’re reporters.” Framstein straightened up, stuck out his chin. “We have elected a life on the sidelines. Observers. Above the fray.”

  “Redux is getting our asses kicked, and she’s using the press to shift the blame to General Sherman,” said Jake flatly. “I wouldn’t call that being above the fray. I’d call that being an instrument of destruction.”

  “Whoa there. The channels are only reporting and doing editorials on what gets said. That’s all we can do. It’s our goddamn function.”

  “Our function is to feed all the news that’s fit to be seen,” Jake replied. “Remember the banner on the old IDC stream, do you, Fram?”

  “And John 3:16 says ‘Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free,’” Framstein relied. “Hallelujah. We’re saved by the Primitive Way!” Framstein stuck out his tongue and made a farting noise.

  “It’s not John 3:16 where it says that,” Jake muttered. He picked up his coffee and took a sip. Damn. Cold. But the whiskey he’d laced it with would warm him up a little.

  “Besides,” said Framstein, “what do shitkickers like us have to do with any of it?”

  “We’re the guys who go out and get the news. The only ones. Every merci news show in the goddamn outer system gets its material from us.”

  “But we’re not presenters. Guys like you and me—we’re too damn smart, to tell the truth.” Framstein puffed out his chest. He couldn’t push it far enough to overshadow his rather substantial paunch. Jake knew that the paunch was a status symbol in the “Baker’s Dozen” kibbutz on Callisto. “If somebody intensified and got inside of my head during a merci show,” continued Framstein, “they’d understand what a sorry excuse for a brain they have, and they’d switch channels like feet on ice, let me tell you. Maybe a dumb mug like you would have a chance to be a presenter, intelligencewise (or lack thereof), but you’re too driven. You’d scare the sweet b’jesus out of the viewers with that vulture stare of yours.”

  “I don’t think people are as dumb as you think they are,” said Jake, and immediately wished he hadn’t spoken. The idiocy of the rest of the world was part of the official creed of irony here at IDC.

  “Don’t think people are dumb?” shouted Framstein. He wiped fake tears from his fattened little eye sockets. “That’s the most idealistic statement I believe I’ve ever heard come from your lips, my boy! I’m moved! I’m truly touched! Would you like to buy a cable that connects Mars to Earth? I’ve got one for dirt cheap.”

  “Let me put it another way,” Jake said. “We haven’t had a war in centuries. We’ve had hundreds of years of not seeing one man bite a dog, if you know what I mean. So the merci news channels have filled up with the shit-huckster presenters. People like—I’m sorry to speak ill of the departed—that bitch Winny Hinge. And her boyfriend, the sports guy, too, by the way—”

  “Better keep your voice
down,” said Framstein, still smiling, but now more serious. “The gods sometimes listen in.”

  Jake barreled on. “And here we sit. IDC has the only real reporters in the known universe—you’ll pardon me, but it’s true. I mean the Met merci is all propaganda all the time these days. Especially since old Greza Rag-mueller and her network strangely disappeared a couple of e-years ago—”

  “Strangely disappeared just before that three-part report on Amés co-opting the big LAPs was scheduled…” chimed in Framstein. He, like all outer-system newspeople, the real and the pretenders, despised the journalism channels of the Met. All were assumed to be under the thumb of the Department of Immunity.

  “Here we sit passively collecting data with—let’s face it—not the most intelligent free-convert help you might hope for.”

  “Panda’s not so bad,” said Framstein. “He’s cute and cuddly. And all-encompassing.”

  “Right,” said Jake. “We all suck off Panda’s nipple, and the presenters suck off ours. And nobody is out there actively looking for the truth.”

  “The truth,” said Framstein, standing up. He held an expectant finger up in the air. “Wait…I smell it…I smell the truth here, in this room…” And this time, he didn’t let out a fake fart, but one that had been artfully prepared within him.

  “Christ, Fram,” said Jake. “We should bottle you as a weapon.”

  “I sense that my work here is done,” Framstein replied.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” said Jake. “I’ve got more drinking to do.” With a big swallow, he finished off the remains of his coffee and watched Framstein lumber away.

  Framstein was probably right, Jake thought. He was talking like an idiot. The people got what they asked for. And he really shouldn’t have put down Panda. The guy was as nice as you could ask for, and a hell of a research engine. Hell, he was the reason IDC existed at all.

  But that wasn’t going to stop the channels from crucifying Sherman, because they weren’t smart enough to see past Redux’s photogenic blandness. What could you do? Her polls would go up. The new government, whatever it called itself, would have to pay attention. Everybody paid attention to opinion polls, even cloudships.

  And we’ll be deeper in the shit than ever. Hell, maybe Amés will have Callisto by the end of the e-year as a birthday present.

  Unless. Unless.

  Unless somebody took it upon himself to go above and beyond. Unless some idiot idealist did a little real reporting and stopped spending all his time grousing.

  Fuck. Jake hit himself three times in the head before realizing what he was doing and stopping it.

  “Panda?” he said.

  “Yes, Jake?” purred the cheerful voice of the IDC research engine in his ear.

  Jake sat back in his chair, put his hands behind his neck. “Panda, I went through postgrad with this odd young woman. She was almost an albino. Frizzy-haired. Amazing analytical mind. On her way to being a LAP, I’m sure. Her name was Anke Antinomian. Can you tell me where she is now?”

  “Just a moment,” said Panda. “Strange…there are some minor security restrictions, but I think I can…” Panda let out a cute little growl. “Yes…there we go. As a matter of fact, Anke Antinomian is a LAP. She’s localized in the Jupiter system, on Ganymede.”

  “What’s she doing these days?”

  “Well, that was the security issue I had to resolve. No wonder—it seems she joined the Federal Army several years ago. She is now Major Anke Antinomian.”

  “My goodness.”

  “And she is not only the adjutant to General Meridian Redux, she is also the Chief of Intelligence for the Jovian Second Army.”

  “I’ll be damned,” said Jake. “Little Anke. And you wouldn’t be able to put me in touch with her, would you, Panda?”

  “There might be a few security hurdles, but I believe I can do that, Jake,” replied Panda. “This is actually kind of fun. I enjoy a challenge more than you might expect.”

  “I’m surprised, Panda.”

  “Well, I may not be the most intelligent free-convert help you might hope for , but I’m a hell of a good researcher, Jake.”

  “I guess you were listening to me before, huh?”

  “I guess I was.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” said Panda. “But tell me what you’re up to, will you? Maybe I can help. I haven’t done any active searching in ages.”

  “When I know myself, Panda,” Jake replied, “you’ll be the first person I tell.”

  Three

  NEPTUNE SYSTEM

  E-STANDARD 10:45, MONDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 3017

  On Tacitus’s virtual ship the sea was forever clear and the sky was blue and bright, though white clouds always seemed to cover the direct light of the sun. The water rolled gently. A mute attendant brought cigars and brandy, then retired belowdecks. Tacitus reclined in a deck chair, while Sherman paced nervously, interspersing his strides by occasionally leaning over the ship’s rail and gazing fitfully out to sea.

  Seeking what out there? Sherman wondered. Italy? The coast of Egypt? This body of water was manifestly modeled on the Mediterranean.

  In actuality, Sherman was in his office on the Neptunian moon Triton, and Tacitus was over a billion miles away, beyond the farthest orbit of Pluto, in the Oort Cloud where the cloudships dwelled. The two men communicated superluminally through the grist.

  Sherman took a long drag of the Cuban cigar Tacitus had given him. He didn’t mind the things so much here on Tacitus’s yacht. The old cloudship must have discovered an amazing algorithm to produce a draw so smooth. Sherman then folded up a communiqué he’d been nearly crushing in his hand and put the paper into a breast pocket of his uniform.

  “It’s not as bad as it seems,” Tacitus told Sherman. “You’ll see the wording is very open-ended.”

  Sherman thumped his chest where the letter was. “It’s a goddamn reprimand,” he said. “And at the same time, it limits my ability to do anything to correct the situation.”

  “Redux’s approval ratings are high at the moment. The sympathy vote.”

  “Since when do you cloudships care about merci polls among us mere biological mortals? Besides, I thought I worked for a republic, not a direct democracy.”

  “You do. And we don’t, generally. But there are Jovian congressional representatives out in the Oorts now, and they practically live and breathe the polls. Did you know they can be immediately removed from office if their own numbers fall below thirty-three percent?”

  “Absurd.” He took another deep puff from the excellent virtual cigars. The ash, which was nearing an inch and a half, clung to the tip tenaciously.

  “But of course it’s crazy,” said Tacitus. “That’s why we’re adopting a genuine Constitution. Amending, I should say.”

  “You’ve been amending it for two e-years!” said Sherman. “I only hope that there’s a Republic left to apply it to when it’s finally finished.”

  “This is a delicate time, General,” said Tacitus evenly. “We need those Jupiter votes to avoid a schism.”

  “A schism? That’s the first I’ve heard of such a thing,” said Sherman. “Is there truly a danger?”

  “Yes,” Tacitus said. “Sadly, some of my brothers and sisters are listening to the siren song of the Met. They are a small faction, but they can cause trouble.”

  Sherman shook his head in disdain. “LAPs should go with LAPs, huh?”

  “That is the gist of their argument,” Tacitus replied. “I believe they think they can impress Amés. Make him like them, even. Then, Lord knows, maybe he’ll give them a planet or two to play with. They are fools and cowards, make no mistake, but they’ve stopped well short of any overt treason. And since this is a democracy, after all—at least we are trying to shape it into one—we have to put up with them. For the time being.”

  “I agree with your point,” Sherman said, “even though I don’t like the implications. It means I have to take th
e blame for Io. I don’t really give a damn about that. It was my fault. But it was my fault because I didn’t fire Redux! And now she can’t be touched.”

  “Momentarily,” Tacitus replied. “But given enough petards, I have a feeling our General Redux will do the right thing and hoist herself on one of them.”

  “The problem is, waiting for it to happen will mean my soldiers’ lives,” Sherman said. “That’s something I hate.”

  “As do I,” said Tactitus. “But we live in this world and not another. Fortunately, in this world you’re still in overall command, General. And as long as I have anything to say about the matter, that will remain true.”

  Sherman leaned far over the railing. He ashed his cigar into the pleasant breeze that was continually blowing. Instead of wafting into the ocean, the residue disappeared as soon as it left the cigar’s tip. Nothing was allowed to disturb the serenity of Tacitus’s virtual Mediterranean paradise.

  “Very well,” Sherman said. “I won’t replace Redux. For now.” He poked the cigar back between his teeth, then took another puff. “Besides, I have my own problems here at Neptune. Amés has reached the final stages of his naval buildup. Haysay’s about to stage an all-out invasion of the local system. It’ll make the San Filieu foray look like a spitball match.”

  That got Tacitus’s attention. The old man—the old virtual representation of a vast cloudship many kilometers wide, Sherman reminded himself—sat up straighter in his lounge chair and looked Sherman in the eye. “Are we ready?” he asked.

  Sherman returned the gaze. “Hell no,” he said. “We’re years behind him in sheer ordnance tonnage. So we can’t fight him head-on. Not yet. Maybe Lebedev will have his academy class ready for actual combat soon…”

  “I know for a fact he is working hard on doing just that.”