The Jupiter War

by Gregory Benford

  Out there, beyond the rock and steel of Big Red, the Alice still lived. Not the woman who had died so many years ago, but the ship, and most of those who crewed her. Thanks to Christoferson she’d cleared the nuclear explosion and lived to fight another day.

  Willie still felt sentimental about the Alice B. and hoped that she’d make it through the war, but if she didn’t, well those were the breaks.

  Perko was gone now, commanding another beat-up freighter called the Q-24, and on his way to the Admiralty only knew where. Meanwhile Christoferson had moved up to XO and seemed to be enjoying it. And Shimmura . . . well, his shoulder would recover but not his heart, for Susie had disappeared. At the moment the engineer was taking refuge in his work, dealing with things more predictable than emotions, and ignoring everything else.

  So, Willie thought to himself, that leaves Forbush, myself, and the other twenty-seven billion people of earth, all making the same stupid mistakes our ancestors did, and surviving in spite of it.

  Willie smiled across the table. “To us!” And both men downed their drinks.

  HAVING HAD three decades to build its military strength in the Jovian system, the United Nations was able to dominate the war for its first months. This advantage was reversed by the arrival of four Confederation carriers early in 2055. The Feds were quick to take advantage of their superior numbers and launched and declared a blockade of all U.N. traffic within the Jovian system. Taken as a whole, the U.N. colonies and research stations were capable of producing everything needed for minimum survival. Being at the far end of a four-month supply line, they had little choice. Unfortunately, no one produced everything it needed, or was capable of surviving for more than a few months in isolation.

  As supplies dwindled, the U.N. commanders realized they would soon be forced to fight, flee to the asteroids, or be starved into submission. Not unexpectedly, they chose to fight. The result was called the Battle of the Three Orbits. The name was created by the propaganda department of the U.N., who scored their greatest success of the battle by announcing their “victory” eleven minutes before any of the Confederation Broadcast Networks did. Those who actually fought in the battle rarely knew the names of any of the actions they were in. When they did, they normally referred to them as “the one where Sam bought it” or “that godawful mess off Europa. “ Most wouldn’t know what you were talking about if asked about the battle using that name. They certainly wouldn’t know which of the thousands of orbits that were assumed by the hundreds of ships that fought each other over that three-day period you meant.

  By whatever name, the battle proved that the destructive power of their weapons meant few ships would escape damage or destruction in any but the most lopsided combat. The Confederation theoretically won, having forced the U.N. survivors back to their bases. The fed ships themselves were, without exception, too badly damaged to allow them to use this temporary advantage.

  The strategic result of the Battle of the Three Orbits was that both sides were left with so few functional combat ships that the blockade was effectively broken. In this way the battle was a U.N. victory. The attrition among the two fleet’s experienced spacemen was even greater and had an even more significant effect. It took two years to train a pilot capable of fighting the U.N. Hawk or Fed Aguila fighters. For the first time since the Battle of Britain, the men became again more important than the machines they flew.

  It was well over a year before reinforcements could be manufactured and hurried out to each side’s asteroid bases for staging to the Jovian colonies. It was during this time that the converted merchant ships were to play their short role. Driven by frustration and necessity, a number of other unusual measures were attempted.

  THE U.N. Space Command Corvette smelled new, of oil and signal-absorber and hot protective coatings. The rush repairs were going well, thought Captain Garrison Cheevers, as he continued his inspection amid the noise of machinery and workmen torturing material with the sustained energy only possible in light gravity.

  The shirt-sleeve walkway between fusion drive and bridge had been struck full-on, damaging but not putting out of action more vital areas. This new hardened walkway lacked the internal panels that had squared off the old, and reminded him of the burrow of a wild animal. Appropriate perhaps, since the U.N. had been on the run and looking for places to hide when the Gallipoli was forced to withdraw to the dockyards on Mars three months before.

  Cheevers felt a visceral connection here that he hadn’t been able to find on leave in Australia. Within days of being released from hospital in Sydney; the slow moving, self-indulgent, civilian way of life had galled him, had led to quarrels and harsh words that couldn’t be withdrawn. The only solution had been to leave.

  He regretted causing his wife pain, but Meredy seemed like a wraith from a quieter, gentler age. Real life was only found in the Jupiter war zone.

  There was much to avenge. When the surrender under a white flag of the Fed ship Diablo proved to be a ruse, he had lost good mates. Bushy Treadwell, whose inspired piloting had pulled the Gallipoli out of many a tight spot, he missed most of all.

  Living on supplies looted from wrecked vessels, the Diablo called herself “corsair” but “pirate” was more to the point, he thought with bitterness. Cheevers’s mouth hardened as he renewed his vow to keep a special lookout for the Diablo.

  “Captain Cheevers, sir,” called a young, spit-and-polish rating.

  “Yes, and who might you be?” he answered loudly, over the din.

  “Courier, sir. An official signal arrived from Admiral Snowden’s office. I have a copy of your new orders.”

  “Already? The repairs are not yet completed.”

  “The Admiral is aware of that, sir, and instructed that key workmen should embark with the ship to complete repairs en route.”

  The courier handed Cheevers a sturdy, sealed envelope.

  Cheevers suddenly appeared older than his thirty-five years. Once he had looked forward to having his own command, but the responsibility thrust on him when Captain Bengal had been killed on the bridge, along with Bushy and the navigator, had literally been a trial by fire. Limping back, with oxy and water down to critical levels, by the time the tender took the survivors aboard Cheevers’s black hair was streaked with white, and deep crevices were carved into either side of his mouth. He wanted to get back, knew how badly the Gallipoli was needed, but still had strong and conflicting emotions.

  He scrawled his signature in the courier’s book and went to the privacy and quiet of the bridge to examine his orders. He slit the envelope and inserted the enclosed chip into the control center, which unscrambled the message and displayed it. He noted the usual U.N. Space Command logo, but was surprised to find a self-destroying message.

  He read quickly, before each line vanished:

  Dear Gary,

  I thought it best to add a note. These are strange and trying times, and in this drawn-out conflict I suppose we must resort to new strategies. Even so, I warn you that you’ll be surprised by the pilots assigned to the Gallipoli. They are civilians and must be assigned to quarters of their own (which should be completed soon if not already). Since they are not in the service they are not required to attend the Officer’s Mess or participate in ship’s activities, such as training, conditioning, etc. This does not bar them if they desire to take part. Do not let their young age, eighteen, deceive you. They have been training for this purpose more than ten years. For all our sakes, keep in mind the desperate shortage of trained pilots.

  Your friend, Sam.

  Cheevers wished that his old captain, now vice-admiral, had been less cryptic. What the bloody hell was Space Command doing to him? The message implied that the new pilots, whoever they were, would be virtually free agents. If SpacCom had planned to undermine the authority of a new captain, they couldn’t have done a better job. He tried to restrain his anger as he scanned the official o
rders that now filled the screen:

  Captain Garrison Cheevers of the UNSS Gallipoli:

  On the 21st of August, 2056, you are instructed to embark at best speed on a mission of great importance. You are to proceed, using evasive maneuvers of your own design, to the vicinity of Callisto, Moon of Jupiter, and there to assist in the protection of vital United Nations mining colonies. At the appropriate time, the Gallipoli will guard a convoy of freighters on its return voyage.

  Your crew will be replaced to the revised minimum strength of sixty-five. During the approximately two-month journey out, training in the use of improved Extra-Vehicular Mobility Equipment and weapons should continue.

  Among the crew are six pilots, two for each shift. You are instructed to keep detailed confidential records of every aspect of their activities that impinges on their fitness for their duties, for later evaluation.

  Vice-Admiral Samuel H. Pennington, UNSC.

  Cheevers was puzzled and dismayed. He did not fancy conducting an experiment during battle conditions, even if the admiral had dashed off a personal note. Who or what were these new pilots who were supposed to replace Bushy?

  No time for speculation—now that it was official, time was at a premium. Cheevers went to work feverishly to prepare to get under way within twenty-four hours. He was all too aware that a favorite time for sneak attack by the Feds was an occasion like this, a time of confusion when a ship was being re-manned and re-supplied. And a neutral zone was no guarantee.

  Without ceremony, the bridge bulkhead door opened and a girl stepped through. Cheevers opened his mouth to protest about proper procedure, but the words died unborn. The girl wore regulation navy-blue pull-ons, but on her they were provocative. Her blond hair was cut short yet only served to emphasize her femininity. She wore no makeup, but didn’t need it to add to the rosiness of her upward-curving mouth, the lesser pink of her cheeks and earlobes, and the perfection of her lightly tanned complexion. Her eyes were deep-set and the lightest blue, and radiated innocence and good nature.

  Cheevers’s heart sank. This was a girl to confound men’s minds, a girl men would put themselves at risk to protect, and end up fighting over. Whatever her role, she would be a disruptive influence.

  But there was more. She stepped aside, and following her was another young woman cast from the same mold, and following her, yet another. Cheevers was aware that his mouth was still open, yet couldn’t summon the presence of mind to regain his dignity. For the three were alike. Not just alike, but models off the same assembly line—identical.

  Another figure entered. This was the male equivalent of the same model—compact build, moved well, entirely regulation—and impossible. Behind him another figure followed, and yet another, till six were lined up in front of him.

  Now that all six were crowding his bridge, Cheevers could see that the men were taller and heavier, and there were small differences between them all in height, even weight, millimeters difference in nose, in eyebrows, yet so little that the overall impression was one of sameness. Surprising too that in their features he found a haunting familiarity.

  “Will somebody tell me what’s going on here?” Cheevers demanded.

  “We’re your pilots, sir, for this voyage anyway, civilians attached to the Space Service,” answered one of the girls.

  “Civilians, that’s all I need, What else are you, clones?”

  “No!” she shot back, offended. “Not clones. Only brothers and sisters. Simple enough. It happens all the time.”

  “That’s enough impertinence. It doesn’t happen by sixes, not on this ship anyway. Who are you?”

  “I’m Aurora, that’s Venus and Star, and the boys are Sky, here, Sunny, and Mercury.”

  “None of the names is familiar. Why do I feel I’ve seen you somewhere before?”

  “Our father was Wainright Caine.”

  “Caine, the explorer? Discovered the caverns under Olympus Mons, didn’t he? Of course. His face was in the news for years. Whatever happened to him? I heard he’d been invalided out—mental troubles . . .Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive. It’s just that you, the six of you, are beyond my experience. I suppose I’m trying to fit you in somewhere.”

  “Not necessary, Captain. You’ll find we do our job better than any singletons. We’ve been raised together and trained, you see, to act in concert.”

  “I’m not sure I like this.”

  “The war has been going on a long time. If you think you can find another half-dozen pilots at short notice, go ahead.”

  “Am I in your way?” asked Cheevers with sarcasm. “We should settle in, if you want to leave today. Sky, you take first shift with me.”

  The tallest of the young men shrugged, slid into the well-padded swivel chair, and began to examine the control helmet.

  “Am I not to be consulted?”

  “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, Captain, but leave the piloting to us. We’ve been training for this for ten years and we’re anxious to get at it.”

  “Don’t any of the rest of you speak?”

  “Of course we do,” said Star, who was a little rounder and with a broader smile, “but generally we let Aurora be our spokesman. She does it so well.” She giggled like any teenager. “At least she thinks she does.”

  “I don’t mind telling you that I’m going to have a word with Space Command about this . . . situation.”

  “If you wish, Captain. Until then . . . “ said Aurora as she settled into the command pilot’s chair before the batteries of instruments surrounding the screens.

  Cheevers had to settle for sending a message. Without incident, loading was completed and the Gallipoli was launched and under way. In space they were under rule-of-silence, and no communication, except for the direst emergency, could be sent either way. However, as the days went by, piloting tasks appeared to be adequately handled.

  Cheevers noted that the women dominated the men, and he was uneasy about the consequences. He consulted the ship’s library and found a disk with a subheading on multiple births. He read that identical twins were always the same sex. This left his pilots as fraternal, or perhaps a double set of triplets?

  Continuing on, he read that when twins were not separated at least part of the time, the girls often bossed the boys since they tended to develop earlier. Scanning quickly, he also found that multiple births became common with the advent of fertility drugs and egg implants. Since a portion of humanity had left the protection of Earth’s ozone layer for space and was now subjected to radiation that damaged reproductive abilities, techniques for isolating eggs and sperm for later implanting, after selective fertilization, had been developed.

  He squirmed uncomfortably. Meredy had wanted to try just that, but he had refused. In his opinion, fighting a brushfire war that threatened to become a full-blown conflagration was no time to think of starting a family.

  The disk explained a few things. Among the crew, though, there was grumbling and speculation that could lead to trouble. It was not totally without grounds. Crew and troopers alike lived near the outer hull, sleeping in bunks three-high and eating together in the common mess, separated only by sex. In contrast, the quarters designated for use by the pilots were in the center of the ship, the safest section, and were relatively spacious and comfortable. And coed. But Cheevers had his orders; it couldn’t be helped.

  He tried to think of a way to defuse the situation. At the same time he felt it right that the twins—properly sextuplets—were isolated from the others, not only because of their youth, but because of their innocence of any outside their circle. They seemed to live for each other and for their work. There was no denying they enjoyed piloting, and the more intricate the maneuvers the better they liked it. From shift to shift there was no disharmony, no lost data recorded where another would not think to look. They were efficient, no doubt of that.

  Still,
Cheevers felt uneasy, as if this were the calm before the storm. Sooner or later, trouble would come. Would it be from the enemy or from within the ship itself?

  At the same time the sextuplets’ energy, enthusiasm, and physical attractiveness made them appealing, especially Aurora. He had no trouble telling her apart, though he had to admit that having the roster handy helped with the rest. Aurora was more outward-looking—and she was not above flirting. He was used to being sought out by females aboard ship, and in the past having a traditional wife at home had helped avoid sexual entanglements. Now Meredy and Earth were very far away in both a physical and emotional sense and Aurora was near, oftener than could be accounted for by accident.

  Cheevers caught as many of the training sessions as he could, and never missed conditioning. Neither did Aurora, though her brothers and sisters showed up only sporadically. As he watched Aurora’s firm young body move gracefully through the exercises, always close by, he sometimes lost track of his own rhythm. Her interest in him was transparent, but she was so young, so innocent of the possible consequence of an affair with a man much older than herself that he didn’t take it seriously.

  EVA training went on daily. Though it was neither practical nor safe to stop the ship’s rotation to go walk about in space, the troopers had practiced “outback” off Mars. The DI, a small man with an amazingly big voice, kept them sharp by having them go over EVA procedures and race into the cumbersome “suits” that would transform them into mini-ships when the need arose.

  Eight days out, Cheevers found time to join in. Before beginning, the DI took him aside. Grinning broadly he boomed, “These new suits are apples, Captain! They’ve been redesigned, see, with improved insulation and heat-emission spreaders.”