Soldiers

by John Dalmas

  For several seconds they sat without talking, looking at one another on their screens. "I suppose," Soong said at last, "you had something on your mind when you called."

  "Yes, I did. I do. It's grown out of the life reviews some of us are guilty of in times like these." She paused, hesitated. "Not so many years ago you asked me to marry you. With good reason to expect a yes. But I had an opportunity to make a four-year patrol with B Squadron-as you had earlier, you'll recall. And I chose it over marriage."

  Yes, you did, he thought. She'd been given command of a frigate, the largest class of warship the Admiralty boasted then. With Axel Tisza as senior captain-commodore-in charge of the squadron. He had no doubt Tisza and she had enjoyed each other's company on the occasional layovers.

  "It was a great opportunity," he finished.

  She looked at him mildly, but he had no doubt she saw through him.

  "In a year this war will be over," she said. "One way or another. Then, assuming I'm still alive, I expect to leave the service. What about you?"

  "I-hadn't thought about it." For a moment the realization surprised him, but it made sense. The prospect of surviving the war wasn't something he wanted to distract himself with. The odds seemed too poor.

  "I can understand that," she said, and paused for a moment. "All I really called about was to invite you to ask me again when this is over."

  He nodded slowly. "Thanks, Carmen. I'm surprised, and more than anything else, complimented. It's the nicest thing anyone ever said to me."

  "Good. Now all we have to do is win the war." She paused. "We both have things to do. I'd better let us get at them."

  Soong nodded. "Right. And Carmen, thank you very much for calling. I probably won't return this personal call till afterward."

  They disconnected then, Soong wondering what he'd meant by "afterward." It had just popped out. He might survive the upcoming battle, but the war? He hadn't felt-and wouldn't feel-any concern at all about dying. His great fear was of losing, and associated with that, he feared that Charley Gordon might die. That, he told himself, would be a tragedy.

  But if he did survive, and if Carmen did…

  He resolved to lose weight.

  ***

  The admiral seated himself in the chair indicated by Ophelia Kennah. It was always that chair, an AG chair set at 0.7 gee, large enough to accommodate his burly body comfortably. In front of him, the large wall window was set to a sky view within Terra's atmosphere. Judging from the elevation of Crux, it might be from somewhere near Rio de Janeiro, where Charley had lived most of his life.

  Beside Soong's chair stood a small stand with several non-fattening hors d'oeuvres. No more goose-liver paste. Knowingly or not, Kennah was cooperating with his efforts to lose weight. Had she read his mind? With her that wasn't inconceivable, but more probably the command officers' chef had talked to her. He sampled one, washed it down with carbonated punch, then swiveled his seat slightly to face the life-support module and its occupant. "Good morning, Charley," the admiral said.

  A tiny light-play danced briefly over Charley's sensorium, perhaps equivalent to an embodied human switching off a music or video cube, and swiveling his seat to face a visitor. "Ah, Admiral!" Charley said. "Since I completed our new battlecomp package, we seldom meet. What may I do for you?"

  "I've called twice lately," Soong answered. "Each time, Kennah told me you were studying." Actually she'd said he was "studying deeply," whatever that meant. "And that unless it was urgent, she'd rather not waken you. But today when I called, she said you were listening to music, and suggested it was a good time to visit." He lifted an eyebrow. "And by now, of course, I'm curious about your studies."

  "Ah." Charley paused as if considering how to put it. "I have been exploring another facet of my potentials, one I dabbled in occasionally when I was younger, without realizing I was merely dabbling. Actually I was being appropriately cautious. But now Ophelia acts as my security officer, an anchor to prevent my being… swept away. And though some risk remained, it seemed something I needed to do at this time. You see."

  Risk? There was a pause of several seconds. He'd been jarred by Charley taking a needless risk, when his ability to function at a high level was so vitally important. "No, Charley," he said softly, "I don't see. You'll have to enlighten me."

  Charley did, and he didn't. "I have," he said, "been visiting the Wyzhnyny grand admiral. At the… soul level you might say. It is not a matter of telepathy, but of… call it integration. At the level of souls, that is. Something the grand admiral is not aware of at the physical or personality level. Though his essence is."

  Soong stared. Uncertainties stirred in his belly like a nest of snakes wakening from hibernation. "Do you know his thoughts?" he asked.

  "His thoughts belong to his personality, not his essence. My level of merging is not so strong that I sense them explicitly. But in a general sense I am aware of his fears, his hopes, his desires. Call it empathy in the fullest sense. The admiral is, of course, a product of his people-his culture and class-and I now understand him, and them, much more deeply than before. In fact, through him I have attained a degree of empathy with them as well."

  Charley's answer did not assure the admiral. "Well then-" Soong found himself reluctant to ask the question, but reluctance seldom ruled him in matters of duty. "Can you influence him?"

  "I have, Admiral, I have. Not to do some particular act, or assume some particular point of view. At the essence level, that is impossible. But he is influenced by the contact, and to an extent enabled by it."

  "Enabled." Soong spoke the word cautiously. "Will he be more dangerous then?"

  "Not dangerous. But he may break free of old acculturation and self-protective mechanisms. And do things he previously could not."

  Soong looked troubled. After a moment Charley added, "Perhaps more to the point, I have a better sense of our joint vectors."

  "Ah!" With relief. "So what you've done is beneficial to our cause. Our defense."

  "Definitely, Admiral; definitely beneficial. This will be a costly battle, as you well know, but the vectors appear… not unpropitious."

  Not unpropitious. From Charley, Soong would have preferred something more positive. "Good," he replied. "We need all the advantages we can have."

  For a minute or so then, they spoke of trivia, until Soong was walking to the door. Then Charley added: "And, Alvaro. Do not worry if I seem changed. During my studies, I have changed. For the better. I discovered and dropped certain features of my personality that I am better off without."

  ***

  As the admiral walked back to his quarters, his discomfort persisted. And not just because of possible troubles growing out of Charley's "integration" with the Wyzhnyny admiral. If it was real. Soong wondered if Charley might be less than sane, perhaps deluded by some experience in trance.

  Meanwhile, he realized what the change had been in Charley's personality. Previously it had included a subtle sense of ingratiation that Soong assumed grew out of living under constant threats since infancy. Threats of equipment failure, a moment's carelessness by a caregiver… even gossip or rumor. Being bottled, Charley's very existence had been illegal. And if the Institute had been shut down, what would have become of him? His only defense had lain in being liked and thought harmless. Yet today that ingratiation had been entirely absent. Remarkable, after so many years of conditioning by fear.

  He'd talk about it with Kennah someday, he decided.

  Meanwhile, there was one thing he did not doubt: Without Charley Gordon, the coming battle could not end well.

  ***

  Admiral Axel Tisza had spoken with Soong previously since his arrival, their exchanges strictly business. Before supper, he called again.

  "I was impressed with your battle master," said the Ax. "God! A damned tragedy he hasn't been cloned. One damned salvo of torpedos and he could be-gone! There might never be another like him."

  The comment annoyed Soong. Cloning humans
had become common in the 21st century, and again in the 23rd. More than enough to establish that much of what made a human valuable-beyond athletics and potential intelligence-the members of a clone were more or less different. Sometimes very different.

  "Cloned?" he said. "You don't know what sort of body he had, or what he went through while he wore it."

  Tisza examined his old roommate, and nodded. "I suppose. My savant reminds me of a frog. But he's worth his weight in anything you'd care to name, even if he's not a Charley Gordon." He shrugged. "Did Fedor appoint me your backup? Or did you?"

  "Fedor. Conditionally."

  "What condition?"

  "That I agreed." What the hell good is a conversation like this? Soong thought. He was too old now to play power games.

  "If he'd given you your choice, who would you have selected?"

  "You. We were always neck and neck. You were always more hair-triggered than I was, and more abrasive when you felt the urge." Or charming if you wanted to be. He wished he had some of Tisza's charm. "But if the Altai gets cooked, or blown apart, and there's no more Charley Gordon and no more Alvaro Soong, this fleet might still have a chance, with you in command."

  Tisza nodded slowly, thoughtful now. "I'd thought you might have chosen Carmen. She's had battle experience."

  "I probably would have, if you were still at a desk in Kunming." He paused. "Ax, I've got some things to take care of before we generate hyperspace. Is there anything else we need to talk about?"

  He'd put just a little emphasis on need.

  "No, there isn't." It was Tisza's turn to pause. "Thanks, Spanish. But I do want to say I think Fedor appointed the right fleet admiral when he gave you the job. And it's assuring to know you approved me as your backup. Fedor thinks a lot of you. And while you may not know it, I do too. Always did. Ever since we were plebes."

  And with that he disconnected, leaving Soong staring at his screen, wondering if he'd been petty.

  Tisza too sat with his eyes on the now-blue screen. Alvaro should have transfered his flag to one of the new battleships, with their two-layered shields, he thought. For the sake of Charley Gordon, if nothing else. But it was late for that. And it might affect morale poorly, to trade the more vulnerable Altai, with its single-layer shield, for one of the better-protected new ships.

  ***

  The Commo fleet didn't get to the Aasen System. The armada had reached Maitreya's World earlier than expected, and might arrive at Aasen before the Commos were ready. Which would put the fleet at a needless and severe disadvantage. En route in hyperspace, simdrills would groove them all on Charley's revised program. But officers, crews, and Charley himself needed to follow the simdrills with adequate steel drills. So the Commos emerged in the fringe of the Shakti System. And there they waited, drilling until the Commos were fully confident of their skills, and even their fleet admiral was reasonably satisfied with their performance.

  If my Commos had half-even a third-of the Wyzhnyny firepower, Soong thought, we'd win. Unfortunately they had nowhere near that. But then, he reminded himself, they didn't need to win if they did well enough, then escaped with losses that weren't too severe.

  ***

  When the klaxons sounded, and shipsvoice called, "Battle stations! Battle stations! Battle stations!" the tension generated was more anticipation than fear. Alvaro Soong had already suppressed his misgivings, and his fleet was as ready as it could be. The Tao would favor him or not.

  ***

  Aboard the Meadowlands, the alarm was a six-second blast of raucous horns, scant seconds after emergence. This time the grand admiral was on the bridge, not in bed. A human fleet lay in the same octant of the local system as his own, but an hour's warp jump insystem. An hour.

  This time, he told himself, the humans would not strike him by surprise. His warfleet had re-formed its formations only 11.38 hyperspace hours outsystem; they could be tightened quickly. "Shipsmind," he said calmly, "order all battle wings to generate warpspace on my count. We will move outsystem far enough to satisfy the parameters of Plan 1.3, then initiate Phase A. One minute and counting: ninety… eighty…"

  On zero his warfleet winked out of F-space.

  ***

  Charley Gordon was on the bridge, his cart secured at the battle master's station. Alvaro Soong sat on his command seat, his hands resting loosely on its command board. For the moment his curved display screen was unsegmented, and inactive except for small analog and digital system displays.

  Charley had predicted the Wyzhnyny would generate warpspace, move farther outsystem, and set ambushes before emerging. In warpspace, ambushes usually weren't very practical, but facing Wyzhnyny numbers, the risk was substantial. So the Commos would stay put. He predicted the Wyzhnyny would then make a warp jump back insystem, and attack simultaneously from multiple surrounding points. He intended to meet them aggressively. His cool confidence had infected all the bridge watch, including his admiral, whose stoicism just now approached tranquility.

  They waited, Charley in a trancelike calm, poised, alert, perfectly ready; a state in which durations registered with no sense of waiting. On his orders, shipsmind provided music chosen to calm without dulling. It began with Gustav Holst's Planets Suite, thence to Colin Jokisaari's Uusisuomi Spring, and others. After a while, a messman brought a lunch cart, and the bridge watch ate at their stations. All but Charley, who never ate and didn't seem to miss it.

  Soong wondered how someone could get over wanting to eat. He'd always assumed it was hardwired.

  ***

  Grand Admiral Quanshuk had emerged in his new, more distant location. Time passed, enough that electromagnetic evidence, poking along at 186,000 miles per second, had informed the human fleet where he now was. Then more time, enough to tell Quanshuk that the humans would not be baited. They were leaving the offensive to him. Clearly this human fleet had a different commander than he'd dueled with before.

  "Very well," he muttered. "We'll give them more than they'll like." He spoke his next order with a feeling approaching confidence.

  ***

  It was late in the following watch, midway through Aleksandr Borodin's In the Steppes of Central Asia, that klaxons clamored aboard the Altai, cutting off the music. Shipsvoice's strident "Battle Stations! Battle Stations!" was redundant. Officers and ranks were already there. Charley Gordon's Situation One was unfolding.

  Twelve mighty wings of Wyzhnyny warcraft had emerged on the fringe of Soong's fleet. Beyond them, on a larger perimeter, were twenty-four more. Outsystem a hundred million miles, the armada's transports and support craft had entered the relative security of warpspace.

  The Wyzhnyny wings were differently constituted than the Commo wings, but comparable in power, and there were far more of them. They began their attack at once, accelerating in gravdrive, generating shields as they came. The Commo wings in turn started toward the Wyzhnyny. The maces led, accelerating much faster than humans or Wyzhnyny could survive. In brief seconds they reached the maximum speed at which they could carry out the intended evasion maneuvers. Then, by triplicate triads-threes of threes-they directed coordinated beam fire at selected Wyzhnyny battleships. While following evasion courses designed to confound target locks.

  Quanshuk stared, chagrined. He'd learned before, the hard way, that certain human cruisers-presumably robots-could maneuver at high speeds. But he'd overlooked the acceleration potentials that implied. Nor had they previously shown him coordinated maneuvers on so large a scale.

  His own ships responded promptly with both war beams and torpedoes, the action swift and violent, with too many craft over too large a volume of space for organics to follow the action. But the battlecomps on both sides took it all in, reacting with a quickness far beyond human or Wyzhnyny. Shields shimmered beneath the onslaught of war beams, flared and collapsed from multiple torpedo strikes. Hulls incandesced, exploded.

  ***

  Then the surviving maces were through the Wyzhnyny formations. The Commo battle groups fo
llowed, their battleships wielding heavy beamguns. Firing torpedoes required complex shield topologies that made them more susceptible to destruction, so it was their corvette and cruiser outriders that wielded torpedoes. The smaller ships' safety lay partly in numbers, and partly in the Wyzhnyny tactic of focusing on human battleships.

  Concentrating on battleships was a sound strategy for both sides. The Commos needed to destroy as many Wyzhnyny as possible, which meant maintaining fighting contact as long as they could-before the Wyzhnyny could gang up on them. Inevitably they did gang up on some of them, of course. The trick then became to disrupt the Wyzhnyny teamwork by throwing in maces. But meanwhile Commo ships were lost.

  ***

  With the Wyzhnyny concentrating on the manned wings, the maces dropped their shields, generated warpspace, and disappeared. Their battlecomps had their orders and knew the drill. So far their losses had been modest, and they'd disordered the Wyzhnyny formations, disrupting their larger-scale coordination before the Commo battle groups struck. More ships died then, mostly Wyzhnyny, while the Wyzhnyny battle groups coordinated their fire as best they could.

  From the bridge of the battleship Pyrenees, Axel Tisza saw the Altai caught in a crossfire from three Wyzhnyny battleships, her shield shimmering strongly with intercepted energy; her shield generator would soon overload. With a quick touch he turned two war beams on one of the attackers; another touch simultaneously ordered torpedoes engaged. Automatically his shield reconfigured, the torpedoes fixing on targets, and launching. A moment later a salvo struck the Pyrenees, and her outer shield layer collapsed. On the bridge, the lights flickered. Systems display windows showed generator status red and pulsing. Damage Control cut off the war beam, lessening the stress on the matric tap, in order to regenerate the shield layer. But there was too little time; another salvo struck, and almost simultaneously another. The lights flared and died, returning almost instantly as the emergency backup system responded. Klaxons clamored briefly before two more salvos struck, and the Pyrenees died. Axel Tisza hadn't even had time to see if he'd succeeded in saving the Altai and Charley Gordon.