A Talent for War (14 page)

"We've got the cruiser cold!"

Those voices are from Corsarius, said the Monitor.

"Full spread!"

It sounded encouraging, but we got hit ourselves about then, and the Stein shook until I wondered how in hell it held together. On the bridge, the captain spoke almost casually to his officers as though nothing out of the way was happening.

A nuclear fireball, silent, blossoming, swept by us. Then: "We got the bastards. They're tumbling."

"Damage Control: report."

A cheer down on the deck. "Mutes have lost propulsion."

"Forward shield collapsed, Captain. We're working on it. Have it back in a few minutes."

"Straczynski has engaged the other two frigates."

"Rappaport, proceed to Straczynski assistance."

"Scopes all clear."

Page 52

"Landing party stand by."

"Rappaport underway. ETA Straczynski's position approximately eleven minutes."

"The cruiser has broken apart." Another cheer.

"Captain, they've got nothing left to cover the heavy."

Through the plexiglass there was only black sky and pockmarked rock. On my screens, though, I could see it, an enormous illuminated barbell, its lights blinking out in a pathetic effort to avoid detection. It floated on tethers, within the spidery bays of its orbiting dock.

"Concur, Captain. No sign of tactical support."

"Acknowledged. Stein to Command. We have a heavy cruiser here. Permission to attack."

"Negative. Do not engage. Prepare to launch the assault teams."

Men and equipment were moving through the ship. Sim will lead the ground force personally, the Monitor said.

I listened to more exchanges, and then the landers were away. Now the two frigates, acting in concert, descended to attack. From my own visit, I recognized the cluster of domes set on the bleak moonscape.

A beam of pale light cut through the black sky. It appeared to be originating from a point north of the base. "Laser," said the intercom.

My displays locked on the source: a pair of dish antennas. We lobbed a plasma weapon of some sort in their general direction. The area erupted in a brilliant slow-motion conflagration, and the lights vanished.

After the ground assault had got well under way, we climbed back into orbit, where we were joined by Rappaport and Straczynski. It was a nervous time: we were now exceedingly vulnerable, and even I, who knew how it would all come out, waited anxiously, watching for the appearance of the enemy fleet on the scopes, listening to the reports coming back up from the landing force.

Resistance on the ground gave way quickly. Within ten minutes, Sim's raiders had broken through the outer defenses, and entered the base proper.

"Monitor," I said, "how much of an advantage do the Ashiyyur have in close combat?"

You mean because of their telepathic capability?

"Yes."

Probably none. Experts don't think they can sort things out quickly enough to be of any real value in a combat situation. It may be fortunate that their capabilities are only passive in nature.

If they could transmit, project thoughts or emotions into the minds of their enemies, things might have been very different.

The fighting turned quickly into a rout. Sim and his force moved almost at will through the enemy complex, collecting communication and tactical data, and destroying everything else: spare parts, supplies, weapons, intelligence systems, and command and control equipment.

"Corsarius to landing party: we urge you to finish up and prepare to return."

"Why?" It was the authoritative voice I'd heard earlier. I had no doubt who its owner was. "Is there a problem?"

"We're going to have company. We have line of sight readings on the mutes. They're coming fast."

"How long?"

"They'll be within maximum firing range in about thirty-seven minutes."

Pause. Then the voice from the ground again: "I thought we'd have more time, Andre. Okay: we'll be starting the Stein team up immediately. The rest of us will follow in about ten minutes."

"That's cutting it close."

"Best I can do. Release Straczynski and Rappaport. Tell them to withdraw. We're getting everything, Andre. Cross index on the entire fleet, breakout on cryptosystems, you name it."

Page 53

"Won't do us any good if we don't get out."

I asked Monitor how long it would take for the Corsarius lander to rendezvous with its ship.

The precise answer depended on a couple of variables, but it came down to approximately twenty-three minutes. That meant that we could get underway before the Ashiyyur began shooting, but we would be accelerating from orbital velocity. They'd overhaul us pretty quickly.

Long before we could make the jump into hyper. Unless I was missing something, we were going to get blown up.

Blips appeared on my long range scan. Destroyers and frigates. We weren't tracking the big stuff" yet, which meant they were probably having a hard time getting turned around and pointed in our direction. That would help.

Corsarius did not pass that extra bit of information along to the force on the ground.

The Stein lander reported that it was away. Moments later, we began to accelerate toward rendezvous.

The enormous bulk of Masipol hung in the western sky, an eerily lit purple blotch, an ill omen. I strained to see the lander, watched the giant planet, and kept an eye on the blips, which grew in size, and gradually defined themselves into forms I could read: a flotilla of destroyers here, a squadron of frigates there.

Again the voice from Corsarius: "Chris."

"We're moving as fast as we can."

"You're out of time."

"Acknowledged."

I could hear people breathing on the intercom. Someone was making course adjustments.

Then a new voice: "Prepare the Phantom. Mask all systems."

"Enemy vessels will be within strike range in fourteen minutes. They have begun to decelerate."

"Fire the Phantom."

The ship trembled, and something dark leaped forward and disappeared immediately.

It's a decoy, said the Monitor. We're running silent now, absorbing scans. The Phantom will simulate Stein's radiation patterns. The idea is to mislead the approaching force.

"Will it work?"

For a few minutes. Incidentally, Corsarius has also fired one."

I sat there sweating. How in hell could they possibly hope to outrun the Ashiyyur? Even with the fancy devices. I wasn't sure about these antiques, but a modern vessel, beginning from a standing start, would be overhauled within an hour.

"Chris?"

"We're leaving now. The mutes were trying to jury-rig a particle beam, and we had to take it out.

Get moving. We'll rendezvous on the run."

He didn't sound as if he felt trapped. But the scanners were crowded with blips. They were going to be all over us.

"Stein lander alongside."

"Frigates leading the pack. They'll be the first ones here. Maximum firing range eleven minutes."

"Let's hope they chase the Phantoms instead of us. Rate of deceleration?"

"Slowing. It's back up to three percent."

"Operations reports the big ships are just now rising out of the flux. They haven't been able to reverse course yet, and will not participate in this action."

That meant they were still going the wrong way. I couldn't see how it would matter, though.

The cloud of blips across my scopes was very close.

"Frigates are tracking the Phantoms."

It is difficult, Alex, for enemy sensors to pick up vessels as small as these, especially against a lunar background.

Page 54

"Ground force aboard."

"Casualties?"

"Three. Plus Koley. Didn't make it back, sir."

"Get them to sick bay. Status on Corsarius?"

"Three minutes to rendezvous with her lander."

"Set course and speed to run parallel with Corsarius after pickup. Prepare for departure."

The oncoming fleet was settling behind the horizon now. I assumed Sim was planning to put the bulk of Hrinwhar between us and our pursuers, though that seemed to me to offer no hope.

"Destroyers are still locked on the Phantoms."

"Dumb bastards."

We'd shut down all nonessential systems and reduced power in others to cut radiation leakage.

We were behind the moon now, invisible, secure. Temporarily. Still, it was a good feeling.

"Corsarius team on board."

"Very good. Lock in exit course. Wait for execute."

We waited. My God, we waited. But there was no hint of panic in the voices on the intercom, or among the bridge crew. We continued in our orbit: I watched the horizon ahead, waiting for the lights of the Ashiyyur. When we emerged from our hiding place, we would be within easy range of their weapons.

"What the hell are we doing?" I asked no one in particular.

"They're turning away from the Phantoms. They've figured it out."

"Scanners are locked on. They've found us."

"Doesn't matter now," came Sim's voice over the intercom. "Let's clear out. Execute exit maneuver. Execute."

The webbed seat swung to face the direction of acceleration, and a moment later I was slammed flat. The moon was gone, the giant planet rolled across the top of the sky. I was damned if I could figure out what was going on. Lifting out of orbit now meant that we'd be heading in the direction of the two suns. Toward the oncoming force.

And then I pictured the scene in the Ashiyyurean ships: the poor sons of bitches frantically applying their brakes, while we roared directly at them. Their few hurried shots went hopelessly wide, and then we were among them where the risk was too high to fire. We nailed a destroyer on the way out.

Down below, on the bridge, and on the intercom, there was a collective sigh.

It was followed by Sim's voice: "Well done, friends," he said. "I think we've given them something to think about today."

VIII.

A good man's name has been dragged unjustly through the streets. If we can, in some small measure, help rectify this condition, then we will have served a worthwhile purpose. And if, along the way, we can pass an hour in quiet friendship, embellished by an appropriate toast or two, why so much the better!

—Adrian Coyle

Address at the founding of the Ludik Talino Society

MACHESNEY HAD COME THROUGH. Though I was positive the reference was to Rashim Machesney, dead these two hundred years (like all the other principal actors in this curious business), I instructed Jacob to contact everybody on the net who owned that last name.

There weren't many.

We found no one who'd ever heard of Gabriel Benedict, and no one who seemed to have any ties to the Resistance: nobody who'd written about it, no old-time war buffs, no antique
Page 55

collectors. (There was some difficulty in acquiring this information, because persons owning that famous name tended to assume a prank when we started asking about the Resistance.) My next step was to learn what I could about the great man himself. But if the problem with Leisha Tanner had been a paucity of data, in Machesney's case there was a tidal wave of crystals, books, articles, scientific analyses, you name it. Not to mention Machesney's own works. Jacob counted some eleven hundred volumes written specifically about him, treating his diplomatic and scientific achievements; many times that number included him in their indices.

Rashim Machesney had been a physicist, probably the most eminent of his time. And when the war broke out, while most of his colleagues urged restraint, he'd warned against the common danger and announced his intention to support the Dellacondans "to the limits of my strength."

His home world tried to stop him (creating an embarrassment it hasn't yet lived down), but Machesney escaped, took some of his associates with him, and joined Sim.

His value to the Confederate cause had been, as far as anyone knew, primarily diplomatic. He lent his enormous prestige to the effort to induce neutrals to join the unequal struggle. He campaigned across half a hundred worlds, wrote brilliant tracts, addressed planetary audiences, survived assassination attempts, and in one memorable escapade was actually captured by the Ashiyyur, and rescued a few hours later.

Most historians credited Machesney for the ultimate intervention by Earth.

But I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of material. "Jacob," I said, "there's no way I can go through all this. You do it. Find the connection. I'm going to try another approach."

"What precisely am I looking for, Alex?"

"Hard to say. But you'll know it when you see it."

"That's not much of an instruction."

I agreed that it wasn't, told him to do the best he could, and linked to the institution that had been created in Machesney's memory.

The Rashim Machesney Institute is a temple, really, in the classical Hellenic vein.

Constructed of white marble, adorned with graceful columns and statuary, it stands majestically on the banks of the Melony. In the rotunda, the great man's likeness has been carved in stone.

Overhead, around the circular roof, is his remark to the Legislature on Toxicon: "Friends, the danger awaits our convenience."

The Institute housed an astronomical data receiving station, which acted as a clearing house for telemetry relayed from a thousand observatories, from Survey flights, from deep space probes, and from God knew where else. Primarily, though, the Institute was a showcase for science and technology, a place where people took their families to see what life was really like out in the cylinder worlds. Or how computers and the pulsar Hercules X-l combine to create Universal Standard Time. There was a simulation of a ride into a black hole running at the theater.

In addition, the library and bookstore were good sources on Machesney. I would have liked to run a search of the library files to see whether Gabe had ever checked anything out, but the clerk insisted it wasn't possible to obtain that kind of information. "Best we can do is look outside the net. We have better records on off-line materials that he'd have to check out physically. If he was late returning anything, we'd have it. Otherwise—" He shrugged.