by Vernor Vinge
Lu finished breakfast, sat sipping coffee. Her eyes wandered about the room, half-consciously memorizing faces, displays, exits. The people in this brightly lit, quiet, air-conditioned bunker were living in a fantasy world. And none of them knew it. This was the end receptacle for megabytes of intelligence streaming in to the Peace from all over the world. Before that data arrived, it was already interpreted and winnowed by remote processors. Here it was finally integrated and put on the displays for the highest commanders to pass upon. These people thought their cute displays gave them some ultimate grip on reality. Lu knew that had never been true—and after last night she was sure the system was riddled with lies.
A door hissed open, and Hamilton Avery entered the command bunker. Behind him came Peace General Bertram Maitland, the chief military seat-warmer in the American Directorate. A typical button-pusher. Somehow she had to get past him and convince Avery to junk remote sensing and fight this one with people.
Maitland and Avery strode to an upper rank of terminals. Avery glanced down at Lu and motioned her to join them.
When she arrived, the general was already busy at a terminal, a large-screen model in a flashy red cabinet. He didn’t look up. “Intelligence predicts they’ll resume the attack shortly after sunrise. You can see indications of thermal activity on the situation board already. It’s barely detectable, since they don’t have powered vehicles. This time, though, we’ll be ready for them.” He punched a final command into the terminal, and a faint buzzing penetrated the walls of the bunker. Maitland gestured to the situation board. “There. We just put every one of the suspected enemy concentrations into stasis.”
Avery smiled his controlled smile. Every day he seemed a little paler, a little more drawn. He dressed as nattily as always and spoke as coolly as always, but she could see that he was coming near the end of his strength. “That’s good. Excellent. I knew if we waited for a full charge we could make up our losses. How many can we do?”
General Maitland considered. “It depends on the size you want. But we can make several thousand at least, with generation rates as high as one per second. I have it under program control now: Satellite recon and even our field commanders can report an enemy location and automatically get an embobblement.” The almost subsonic buzz punctuated his words.
“No!” The two old men looked up at her, more surprised than angry. “No.” Della repeated more quietly. “It’s bad enough to trust these remote sensors for information. If they actually control our bobbling, we could very well use all our reserves and get nothing.” Or worse, bobble our own people. That thought had not occurred to her before.
Maitland’s expression clouded. His antagonist was young, female, and had been promoted with unseemly speed past his favorites. If it weren’t for Hamilton Avery, she would be out there on some battalion staff—and that only as reward for her apparent success in Asia. Lu turned her attention to Avery. “Please, Director. I know it’s fantastic to suspect enemy interference in our satellite communications. But you yourself have said that nothing is beyond this Hoehler, and that whatever is the most fantastic is what he is most likely to do.”
She had pushed the right button. Avery flinched, and his eyes turned to the situation board. Apparently the enemy attack predicted by Maitland had begun. Tiny red dots representing Tinker guerrillas were moving into the Valley. Already the Authority bobbler had acted several more times under automatic control. And what if this is fraudulent, or even partly so? There might be Tinkers in the Valley, moving through the deep ravines that netted the landscape, moving closer and closer. Now that the possibility was tied to Paul Hoehler, she could see that it had become almost a certainty in his mind.
“And you were the person who predicted he would attack us here,” Avery said almost to himself and then turned to the officer. “General Maitland, abort the programmed response. I want a team of your people monitoring our ground forces—no satellite relays. They will determine when and what to embobble.”
Maitland slapped the table. “Sir! That will slow response time to the point where some of them may get onto the inner grounds.”
For an instant, Avery’s face went slack, as if the conflicting threats had finally driven him over the edge. But when he responded, his voice was even, determined. “So? They still have no idea where our generator is. And we have enough conventional force to destroy such infiltrators ten times over. My order stands.”
The officer glared at him for a moment. But Maitland had always been a person who followed orders. Avery would have replaced him decades before if that were not the case. He turned back to the terminal, canceled the program, and then talked through it to his analysts at the front of the room, relaying Avery’s directive. The intermittent buzzing from beyond the walls ceased.
The Director motioned Lu to follow him. “Anything else?” he asked quietly, when they were out of Maitland’s earshot.
Della didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Ignore all automated remote intelligence. In the Livermore area, use line-of-sight communications—no relays. We have plenty of people on the ground, and plenty of aircraft. We’ll lose some equipment doing it, but we can set up a physical reconnaissance that will catch almost anyone moving around out there. For places further away, Asia especially, we’re stuck with the satellites, but at least we should use them for voice and video communication only—no processed data.” She barely stopped for breath.
“Okay, I’ll do as you recommend. I want you to stay up here, but don’t give orders to Maitland.”
It took nearly twenty minutes, but in the end Maitland and his analysts had a jury-rigged system of aircraft sweeps that produced something like complete coverage of the Valley every thirty minutes. Unfortunately, most of the aircraft were not equipped with sophisticated sensors. In some cases, the reports were off eyeballs only. Without infrared and side-looking radar, almost anything could remain hidden in the deeper ravines. It made Maitland and his people very unhappy. During the twenties, they had let the old ground based system slide into oblivion. Instead, enormous resources had been put into the satellite system, one they thought gave them even finer protection, and worldwide. Now that system was being ignored; they might as well be refighting World War II.
Maitland pointed to the status board, which his men were painfully updating with the field reports that were coming in. “See? The people on the ground have missed almost all the concentrations we identified from orbit. The enemy is well-camouflaged. Without good sensors, we’re just not going to see him.”
“They have spotted several small teams, though.”
Maitland shrugged. “Yes, sir. I take it we have permission to bobble them?”
There was a glint in Avery’s eyes as he responded to the question. However Lu’s theories turned out, Maitland’s days with this job were numbered. “Immediately.”
A small voice sounded from the general’s terminal. “Sir, I’m having some trouble with the update of the Mission Pass area. Uh, two A-five-elevens have overflown the Pass…They both say the bobble there is gone.”
Their eyes snapped up to the situation board. The map was constructed with photographic precision. The Mission Pass bobble, the Tinker bobble that had nearly killed her the night before, glinted silver and serene on that board. The satellite system still saw it—or reported seeing it.
Gone. Avery went even paler. Maitland sucked his breath back between his teeth. Here was direct, incontrovertible evidence. They had been taken, fooled. And now they had only the vaguest idea where the enemy might really be and what he might do. “My God. She was right! She was right all along.”
Della was not listening. There was no triumph in her. She had been fooled, too. She had believed the techs’ smug assurance that ten years was the theoretical minimum for the duration of a bobble. How could she have missed this? Last night I had them, I’ll bet. I had Hoehler and Wili and Mike and everyone who counts…And I let them escape through time to today. Her mind racing frantically through the implica
tions. If twenty-four-hour bobbles could be cast, then what about sixty-second bobbles—or one-second ones? What advantage could the other side gain from such? Why, they could—
“Ma’am?” Someone touched her elbow. Her attention returned to the brightly lit command room. It was Maitland’s aide. The general had spoken to her. Della’s eyes focused on the two old men.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
The general’s voice was flat but not hostile. Even surprise was leached from him now. Everything he depended on had failed him. “We just got a call on the satellite network. Max priority and max encryption.” That could only be a Director—and the only other surviving director was K.T. in China. “Caller demands to talk to you. Says his name is Miguel Rosas.”
37
Mike drove. Fifty meters ahead, almost swallowed up in the fog, he could see the other crawler. Inside it were Paul and Wili and Allison, with Allison driving. It was easy to keep up until Allison trucked off the broad roadway into the hills. He came down a hillside a little fast, and nearly lost control.
“You okay?” Paul’s voice sounded anxiously in his ear. He’d established the laser link just seconds before.
Mike twitched the controls tentatively. “Yeah. But why come straight down that hill?”
“Sorry, Mike.” It was Jill—no, Allison. “Sideways would have been worse; might have slipped treads.”
Then they were moving through open country. The ring of periscopes was not as good as a wraparound holo, but it did give the sensation that his head was in the open. The keening of the engine covered any natural morning sounds. Except for their crawlers, and a crow flickering past in the mist, nothing moved. The grass was sere and golden, the dirt beneath white and gravelly. An occasional dwarf oak loomed out of the fog and forced Allison and then Mike to detour. He should be able to smell morning dew on the grass, but the only smells were of diesel fuel and paint.
And now the morning fog began to part. Blue filtered through from above. Then the blue became sky. Mike felt like a swimmer come to the surface of a misty sea, looking across the waters at far hills.
There was the war, and it was more fantastic than any old-time movie:
Silver balls floated by the dozens through the sky. Far away, Peacer jets were dark bugs trailing grimy vapor. They swooped and climbed. Their dives ended in flares of color as they strafed Tinker infiltrators on the far side of the Valley. Bombs and napalm burned orange and black through the sea of fog. He saw one diving aircraft replaced by a silvery sphere—which continued the plane’s trajectory into the earth. The pilot might wake decades from now—as Allison Parker had done—and wonder what had become of his world. That was a lucky shot. Mike knew the Tinker bobblers were small, not even as powerful as the one Wili brought to LA. Their range with accuracy was only a hundred meters, and the largest bobble they could cast was five or ten meters across. On the other hand, they could be used defensively. The last Mike had heard, the Bay Area Tinkers had got the minimum duration down to fifteen seconds; just a little better and “flicker” tactics would be possible.
Here and there, peeping out of the mist, were bobbles set in the ground: Peacer armor bobbled during the night fighting or Tinkers caught by the monster in the valley. The only difference was size.
The nose of the crawler dipped steeply, and Mike grunted in surprise, his attention back on his driving. He took the little valley much more slowly than the last one. The forward crawler was almost up the other side when he reached the bottom. His carrier moved quickly through a small stream, and then he was almost laid on his back as it climbed the far side. He pushed the throttle far forward. Power screamed through the treads. The crawler came over the lip of the embankment fast, nose high and fell with a crash.
“The trees ahead. We’ll stop there for a couple of minutes.” It was Wili’s voice. Mike followed the other crawler into an open stand of twisted oaks. Far across the Livermore Valley, two dark gnats peeled off from the general swarm that hovered above the Tinker insurgents and flew toward them. That must be the reason Wili wanted to get under cover. Mike looked up through the scrawny branches and wondered what sort of protection the trees really gave. Even the most primitive thermal sensor should be able to see them sitting here with hot engines.
The jets roared by a couple thousand meters to the west. Their thunder dwindled to nothing. Mike looked again across Livermore Valley.
Where the fighting was heaviest, new bobbles shone almost once a second. With the engines idling, Mike thought he could hear the thunder and thump of more conventional weapons. Two jets dived upon a hidden target and the mists were crisscrossed with their laser fire. The target tried something new: A haze of bobbles—too small to distinguish at this distance—appeared between aircraft and ground. There was a flash of sudden red stars within that haze as the energy beams reflected again and again from the multiple mirrors. It was hard to tell if it made an effective shield. Then he noticed the jets staggering out of their drive. One exploded. The other trailed smoke and flame in a long arc toward the ground. Mike suddenly wondered what would happen to a jet engine if it sucked in a dozen two-centimeter bobbles.
Wili’s voice came again. “Mike. The Peacers are going to discover that we have been faking their satellite reception.”
“When?” asked Mike.
“Any second. They are changing to aircraft reconnaissance.”
Mike looked around him, wishing suddenly that he were on foot. It would be so much easier to hide a human-sized target than a crawler. “So we can’t depend on being ‘invisible’ anymore.”
“No. We can. I am also speaking with Peacer control on the direct line-of-sight.” These last words were spoken by a deep, male voice. Mike started, then realized he was not talking directly to Wili. The fake had a perfect Oregon accent, though the syntax was still Wili’s; hopefully that would go unnoticed in the rush of battle. He tried to imagine the manifold images Wili must be projecting to allies and enemies. “They think we’re Peacer recon. They have fourteen other crawlers moving around their inner area. As long as we follow their directions, we won’t be attacked…And they want us to move closer in.”
Closer in. If Wili could get just another five thousand meters closer, he could bobble the Peacer generator.
“Okay. Just tell us which way to go.”
“I will, Mike. But there’s something else I want you to do first.”
“Sure.”
“I’m going to give you a satellite connection to Authority High Command. Call them. Insist to speak with Della Lu. Tell her everything you know about our tricks—”
Mike’s hands tightened on the drive sticks. “No!”
“—except that we control these two crawlers.”
“But why?”
“Do it, Mike. If you call now, you’ll be able to give away our satellite trick before they have proof. Maybe they will think you’re still loyal. It will distract them, anyway. Give away anything you want. I’ll listen too. I’ll learn more what’s passing at their center. Please, Mike.”
Mike gritted his teeth. “Okay, Wili. Put ’em on.”
Allison Parker grinned savagely to herself. She hadn’t driven a crawler in almost three years—fifty-three if you counted years like the rest of the universe. At the time, she’d thought it a silly waste of taxpayer’s money to have recon specialists take a tour with a base security outfit. The idea had been that anyone who collected intelligence should be familiar with the groundside problems of security and deception. Becoming a tank driver had been fun, but she never expected to see the inside of one of these things again.
Yet here she was. Allison gunned the engines, and the little armored carrier almost flew out of the thicket of scrub oak where they’d been hiding. She recognized these hills, even with the hovering spheres and napalm bursting in the distance. Time didn’t change some things. Their path ran parallel to a series of cairnlike concrete structures, the ruins of the power lines that had stretched across the Valley
. Why, she and…Paul…had hiked along precisely this way…so long ago.
She tried to shake free of the painful double images. The sun was fast burning off the morning fog. Soon the concealment the Tinkers were using to such advantage would be gone. If they couldn’t win by then, they never would.
In her earphone, she heard a strange voice reporting their position to the Peacer command center. It was eerie: She knew the message came ultimately from Wili. But he was sitting right behind her and had not spoken a word. The last time she looked, he seemed asleep.
The deception was working. They were doing what Peacer control said, but they were also coming closer and closer to the edge of the inner security area.
“Paul. What I saw from orbit is only about six thousand meters north of here. We’ll be closest in another couple of minutes. Is that close enough?”
Paul touched his scalp connector, seemed to think. “No. We’d have to be motionless for almost an hour to bobble from that range. The best trade-off is still four thousand meters. I—Wili—has a spot in mind; he and Jill are doing prelim computations on the assumption we can reach it. Even so, he’ll need about thirty seconds once we get there.”
After a moment Paul added, “In a couple minutes, we’ll break our cover. Wili will stop transmitting and you’ll drive like hell straight for their bobbler.”
Allison looked through the periscoped hull. The crawler was so close to the security perimeter, the towers and domes of the Enclave blocked her view to the north. The Enclave was a city, and their final dash would take them well inside its boundaries. “We’ll be sitting ducks.” Her sentence was punctuated by the swelling roar of a stub-winged jet that swept almost directly over them. She hadn’t seen or heard it till that instant. But the aircraft wasn’t strafing. It was loafing along at less than one hundred meters per second, a low-level recon.
