'Somehow, we assume through spies, the Beyonders and -possibly through the Beyonders - the E-5 Disconnect got to hear about this. The Beyonders attacked the Ulubis portal less than a month later and the E-5 Discon's sudden interest in Ulubis also dates from this point. When the Jeltick realised the secret was no longer theirs alone,' the image said, 'they broadcast-leaked it, to avoid accusations of partiality and maintain their reputation for disinterestedness.' The projection gave a sour look. 'This has not gone down too well with the Ascendancy, either - one imagines the Jeltick will be made to pay somewhere down the line. In any event, five full squadrons of the Summed Fleet - over three hundred capital ships -retraced the Jeltick fleet's route to Rijom and Zateki, but found nothing. Under full disclosure it has turned out that the information concerned was in any case incomplete; the lead is, as it were, only half-formed. The Jeltick move was a gamble, reckoned even by themselves at having a less than twelve per cent likelihood of success. For such a cautious species to make such a wild wager with their reputation and future alone indicates the value of the prize they sought.'
The hologram brought its gloved hands together, producing an audible clap. 'So, now almost everybody who wants to know about the new Transform lead - such as it may be - does know, and this would appear to include the Disconnect of the Starveling Cult, and - quiet though they may have seemed recently - the Beyonders, who may or may not be in league with the E-5 Discon. Hence the most recent attacks on Ulubis, and the coming invasion.
'But be aware,' the image said, growling, eyes narrowing, 'that behind this terrible threat lies a fabulous prize. If we can discover where the hidden portals lie - assuming that they are indeed there to be discovered - we may well be able to intervene in the Ulubis system before the Starveling Cult invasion force arrives. It would be entirely worth the most supreme effort and sacrifice for that result alone. Even more importantly, however, this is a prize that could, that just might, that can unlock the galaxy and usher in a new golden age of prosperity and security for the Mercatoria, for all of us.' The projection paused once more. 'Our strategists estimate that even with the best result from those actions we shall ask you to undertake, the chances of success remain below fifty per cent.' The projection appeared to draw breath. 'But that is not the point. The smallest chance of the greatest reward, when so few may compete for it, makes the contention compulsory. All that matters is that we may have been presented with an extraordinary, utterly unprecedented opportunity. We would all be in serious, even ultimate dereliction of duty if we did not do everything in our power to seize that opportunity, not just on our own behalf but for the good of all our fellow creats, and for those generations yet unborn.'
The image smiled one of its cold smiles. 'The orders I have to pass on to you from the Complector Council are: to Seer -now Major - Taak.' (The projection was already looking straight at Fassin. Now so did a lot of the people in the chamber.) 'Return to Nasqueron, seek out the ancient Dweller who gave you the original information and try to find out all you can about the Dweller List, the Second Ship, its location and the Transform. And, to everybody else here,' (the image looked around all the others in the chamber) 'first, provide every aid you can to Major Taak in the furtherance of his mission, including doing nothing that will delay, obstruct or compromise it, and, second, return the Ulubis system to an invasion-imminent, full-scale, total-war footing immediately and prepare to oppose the coming invasion. Your goal should be - and I do not exaggerate here - to resist to the very last creat, to the very last mortal, to the very last breath.'
The hologram seemed to stand back a little and take the measure of them all. 'I would say to all of you that, without doubt, your fate lies in your own hands. More importantly, so, potentially, does the fate of the Mercatoria and the civilised galaxy. The rewards for success will be unprecedented in their scale and splendour. The punishments for failure will begin with ignominy and disgrace and plumb new depths of ghastliness beyond. One last thing. You know that the Engineership Est-taun Zhiffir and battle-fleet escort which sent this signal are still seventeen years from reaching Ulubis system. I must tell you that significant elements of the Summed Fleet, above Squadron strength, were dispatched in your direction from Zenerre even before the Eship left and have been making well in excess of the Eship fleet's velocity directly towards Ulubis ever since. The attack squadrons will arrive years before the Eship and its escort fleet, their war craft will be fully deployed for uninhibited battle against all who oppose the Mercatoria, and - depend upon it -they will prevail.'
The image smiled again. 'How I wish I could tell you exactly how soon from this point they will appear. However, even I do not know; this signal was sent from the fleet accompanying the Eship and we do not yet know quite how close to light speed they have pushed themselves, or how close they will have by the time this signal arrives. We can only hazard. If the Disconnecters leave off for as long as another couple of years, the attack squadrons may well arrive before them. Otherwise, they will descend upon a system already fallen to the enemy, or, one would hope, still somehow resisting. Their reaction when they arrive largely depends on your determination, fortitude and ability to absorb punishment.' The projection smiled. 'Now: any further questions?'
*
The Beyonders must have anticipated them. Their ships were already making ninety per cent of their own furious, headlong speed when they appeared on the point ship's long-distance scanners.
Taince Yarabokin floated foetal, swaddled in shock-gel, lungs full of fluid, umbilicalled to the ship, nurtured by it, talking to it, listening to it, feeling it all around her. A gee-suit half-completed the image of warrior as unborn, leaving the wearer clothed in a close second skin. Her connection with the ship was via implants and an induction collar rather than a cord into her navel, and her chest moved only faintly as the gillfluid tided oxygen into her blood and scrubbed waste gases out again. Behind her closed lids in that darkness, her eyes flickered to and fro, twitching involuntarily. She shared her close confinement with another forty or so of her comrades, all lying curled and protected and wired up in their own life-pods, all carried deep in the belly of the fleet's flagship, the Mannlicher- Carcano.
Way ahead at point, the destroyer Petronel veered, maxing its engines, then blinked out in a wash of light that became darkness as the sensors compensated. The buffering faded and revealed the half of the lead ship that was left, tumbling wildly, tearing itself apart in dark curved fountains of debris, spraying fragments against the tunnel-scape of hard blue-white stars collected ahead.
- Point registers multiple contacts at ninety fleet-vee, said one voice, flagged as LR sensors.
- Point is hit, came another; Fleet Status.
- Point contact lost, came a third, followed immediately by:
- Point gone; Fleet Comms and Status almost colliding.
Instantly aware, Taince had just sufficient time for one small,
frightened part of herself to think, No! Not on my watch! And right in the Fleet Admiral's nap time, when she was in sole charge. But even as that reaction seemed to echo and die inside her head, she was sensing, judging, thinking, getting ready to issue orders. She flitted between the real-as-it-could-be view shown by the deep-space scan sensors, where the stars were bunched hard blue-white in a circle ahead and collected into a fuzzy red pool behind with pure blackness in every other direction, and the dark abstraction that was Tacspace, a multi-lined and -radiused sphere where the ships of the fleet sat, little stylised arrowhead shapes of varying sizes and colours, a line of fading dots behind each indicating their courses, green glowing identities and status codes riding alongside them.
The pre-prepared split pattern wouldn't work; the ship which had just traded point with the Petronel was still sliding back into position in the main body of the fleet and a pattern-one split would at worst cause multiple collisions and at best be just too slow.
Oh well, time to start earning her pay and communicate. Taince
sent,
- Pattern-five split, all ships. BC-three, that plus a two-point
inward, left-skew delta, for five, then resume.
Copy signals flicked back, the first from her own helm officer, the last from the battlecruiser Jingal, registering its adherence to the slight kink she'd put in its course the better to accommodate their D-seven: Destroyer seven, the Culverin, the ship which had been falling back after swapping point with the Petronel. She was distantly aware of her body registering a pulse of movement, a sudden change in direction so extreme that even the shock-gel couldn't completely mask it. Around them, the ships would be flaring off like their own silent shrapnel burst.
- Hull stress eighty-five, Ship Integrity-Damage Control told her.
- All units responding. Full pattern-five flare, said Fleet Status.
- D-seven: thanks for that, joining pattern.
- C-one: single contact, five nor-down-west.
- D-three: double contact, neg-four nor-up-east.
The cruiser Mitrailleuse and the destroyer Cartouche registering hostiles. Taince didn't even need to glance into Tacspace to know that meant harmfuls on both sides.
- So, bracketing.
- A straddle. Got us good.
The last two voices had been the two most senior fellow tactical officers.
- We sound as though we play Battleships. (That was Fleet Admiral Kisipt. Awake now, watching. Apparently content to let Taince run the show for the moment.)
- C-one: hostile contact confirmed. PTF.
- D-three: hostile contact confirmed. PTF.
Mitrailleuse and Cartouche requesting permission to fire.
- Suggest fireSuggest fire, the other tacticians chorused.
- Agree fire, Fleet Admiral Kisipt said. - Vice?
Vice Admiral Taince Yarabokin thought so too. - C-one, D-three; grant free fire.
- C-one: Firing.
- D-three: Firing.
Tacspace showed bright crimson beams flick from the two ships. Tiny, lime-green dots with their own status bars were missiles, darting towards the enemy ships.
- Multiple hits on the D-one debris field, LR Sensors
reported.
- Still flare?
- Still flare, Taince confirmed. She was watching the scintil-lations ahead, where the wildly spinning, whirling, somer-saulting wreckage of the Petronel was being hit by further enemy munitions. The remains were dropping back rapidly towards the main fleet as it spread quickly outwards. She clicked up a countdown to their impact with the debris field: seventy-six seconds. She shifted the read-out to a skin-sensation to avoid cluttering her visual feed.
No positive results from the laser fire being laid down by the Mitrailleuse and Cartouche. Their missiles were still heading towards the hostile craft. No sign of reply so far.
What if we're wrong? Taince thought. What if they've out-thought us and our so-neat manoeuvre? Deep in her life-pod cocoon, she gave a semblance of a shrug without realising it herself. Oh well, then we may all be dead. At least it should be quick.
- Still flare?
- Still flare, she confirmed again. Waiting, judging, wondering if this would work. Tacspace showed the second-hand, now increasingly out-of-date contacts the Petronel had spotted as a glowing, slowly dispersing cloud of pulsing yellow echoes. The two hard contacts still registering on the sensors of the Mitrailleuse and the Cartouche and now confirmed by other nearby ships were strobing red dots, slowly closing. The wreckage from the Petronel was a stippled mess of purple, dead ahead and drifting closer, slowly spreading.
It's okay, Taince told herself. We can do this.
They had rehearsed all this, trained and exercised in VR time after time, specifically for this eventuality, this ambush and manoeuvre and response suite.
They knew that the Beyonders would anticipate a fleet being sent from Zenerre to Ulubis. There was, of course, only one quickest possible route; the straight-line direct one, its laser-clean rule turned into the shallowest of curves solely by allowing for the minimal drift of the respective systems as they circled with the rest of the galactic outskirts round the great wheel's core, fifty thousand light years away.
So, did the fleet take exactly that route, laying itself open to ambush by other ships, and - more threateningly - to mines? (Mines, indeed; all you needed was a few tonnes of crushed rock. Smash a tiny asteroid into gravel the size of rice grains, spread it across the course the fleet would- take and - if they were travelling quickly enough - you could waste the lot; so close to light speed that you didn't need to have anything home in and explode, just getting in the way was devastating enough.) Or did you loop further out, avoiding likely interception but arriving later?
And did you stick together (obvious but sensible) or split up, all the individual craft taking their own route to Ulubis, only regrouping near their destination (very risky, but potentially a tactic that the enemy wouldn't have anticipated)? In the end the Fleet Admiral had chosen one out of a bunch of faintly bowed courses recommended by the strategists and their sub-AI machines, and they followed that route en masse.
It was a gamble. The chances were that they would be inter-cepted, especially if the Beyonders possessed the kind of materiel they were thought to have between Zenerre and Ulubis. The obvious intercept strategy was to station minor ships and other sensor platforms about halfway, then position the intercept units well behind that - already making high speed - to give them time to gather for the attack. In a direct pitched battle, there was no possibility that the vastly outnumbered and out-armed Beyonder ships would prevail. But then, they didn't need or want a pitched battle, they just had to slow the Mercatoria fleet down as much as possible. They wanted skirmishes, ambushes, and to use the fleet's own colossal velocity against it.
The Mercatoria fleet could, in theory, have gone slow and safe, assured just by its sheer weight of arms of being able to blast anything ahead of it out of the skies. Its orders, though, were to get to Ulubis as quickly as possible, regardless, and so it had to travel almost ultimately quickly and risk being torn to bits by a few small ships and nothing more high-tech than a few tonnes of pulverised rock.
They'd come up with a surprise plan of their own. Needle ships were designed to fit through narrow worm-holes, it was that simple. The biggest arteria and the widest portals were a kilometre across, but the average 'hole diameter was under fifty metres and a few very old arteria were barely ten metres wide. It took a vast amount of energy andor matter to make an arteria and its two portals, and it was difficult, expensive and dangerous to expand them once they were emplaced. There was, for the Mercatoria, little point in having a network of super-fast travel connections scattered throughout the galaxy if your ships were too fat to fit, and so the proportions of war craft - the ultimate levers of power for the Mercatoria, just as they had been for all earlier imperia, semimperia and others who had thought to enforce their peace or impose their will on the galactic community over the aeons - were derived from the width of the channels they would have to negotiate.
In the past, some great capital ships could auto-deconstruct to become a shower of smaller, slimmer components which could fit through a wormhole, and were then capable of reassembling themselves at the far end, but this had proved a wasteful way of designing war craft. Needle ships were simpler and cheaper, for all their astounding complexity and cost. The biggest craft in the battle fleet heading from Zenerre to Ulubis were a kilometre long but less than forty metres across the beam. Almost right at the enemy ship, the missile fired by the Mitrailleuse winked out, replaced by a tiny debris field. Signals from the cruiser, Sensors and Status confirmed this.
- That missile snapped a hostile profile before it was picked off, Weapons reported, side-screening the data the missile had plipped back.
- Sceuri ship, Sulcus or Fosse class, one Tactics officer sent.
So they were dealing - at least in that ship - with the Deathspiral, Taince thought. That particular Beyonder group was exclusiv
ely Sceuri; waterworlders with a hatred for the Mercatoria in general and those of their own kind who were a part of it in particular (which meant most of them). Renowned for their viciousness and without even the excuse that they were protecting their precious civilian habitats. They didn't have any, they were almost entirely ship-based. A bunch of piratical terrorists, in other words, just fanatics. And yet as far as anyone knew the Deathspiral hadn't taken part in the attack on the Ulubis portal.
- So that makes four, not three varieties of Beyonder oper-ating in this volume, the Admiral sent, saying what Taince was thinking.
- Two more and we'll have the set, she replied.
Back in Tacspace, she watched the Cartouche's missile curving to meet the twisting trace that was the other nearest hostile. It joined it, overlaying it. A white blink, then an infinitesimal spray of debris, red speckled with green.
- D-three: Hit! Hostile hit!
Taince's two fellow tacticians aboard the flagship made whooping noises.
- Well done, D-three, said Kisipt.
- Still flare?
- Still flare. Taince ignored the celebratory noises and her own feeling of excitement. She watched Tacspace, listened to the ship chatter, felt the seconds count down.
The fleet was still spreading, the vessels' courses fanning out like thin stems from a short vase. Taince held off and held off and held off, until she could almost feel Fleet Admiral Kisipt and everybody else getting ready to shout at her.
Forty seconds. She sent,
- De-flare. Pattern-five reverse.
- Copy, said her own helm officer, then the other acknowledgements followed. In Tacspace, the flowering, widening ship tracks immediately started to bunch up again, the distances between them closing.
- C-one: Going to be tight.
But it was doable. They could get back to their earlier formation before they encountered the remains of the Petronel; that was all that mattered for now. Tacspace showed the fleet regrouping smoothly. The view ahead showed the fiercely glowing nebula of wreckage from the Petronel, seeming to spread across the sky as they approached it, encroaching onto the dark, starless tube on either side. She zoomed in, picking out a clear spot near the centre of the debris field, checking it in Tacspace. There.
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