Starfishers Volume 3: Stars End (7 page)

“Remember, McClennon was programed for it.”

“I know that. It was my idea. But he wasn’t supposed to make a career out of it. He didn’t de-program? What the hell was wrong with Storm? What’s his story? Why didn’t he bring Thomas out?”

“We’re working on it, sir. Interrogating returnees. When we can lay hands on them. They scattered after they hit Carson’s, before we knew we had a problem. Near as we can tell, Storm stayed behind because he didn’t want to leave McClennon there alone. The programming must have broken down. McClennon asked to stay. They kept Storm from bringing him out.”

“I see. That would be like Mouse. Don’t leave your wounded behind. He’s too much like his father. I knew Gneaus Storm. When you get to the bottom line, it was his sense of honor that got him killed. Well, I’ve got my honor too, even if it’s a little discolored around the edges. I don’t leave my wounded behind either. Akido, I want those boys brought out.”

Jones snorted.

“Charles? What’s biting your ass?”

“I was just thinking that anybody who cared as much about his troops as you put on wouldn’t have thrown them back in the furnace before they’d cooled off from The Broken Wings. And you hit them with that one before they’d cooled off from . . . ”

“Hey! Charlie, it’s my conscience. I’m the one who’s got to live with it.”

“Storm could handle it. He didn’t get the deep Psych-briefings. But McClennon . . . You probably overloaded the poor bastard. He was goofy at his best times.”

“That’s enough. Right now, right here, we finish crying about Storm and McClennon. That understood? We start figuring out how to get them back. And in our spare time we worry about the Four slash Six. And come bedtime, if you get tempted to waste time sleeping, start figuring how we’re going to get a hammerlock on the Starfishers before they get their hands on Stars’ End.”

“Sir?” Namaguchi inquired.

“One of you clowns told me they were sure they could get in. You know what happens if they do?”

“Sir?”

“We bend over and kiss our asses good-bye. Because we’re dead. We can hope, but we’ll still be in the line to the showers.”

“I don’t follow your reasoning this time.”

“You’re not looking at the whole picture, that’s why. The gestalt, if that’s the right word. Look. If they get those weapons before we do, they can tell us to go pound sand and make it stick. We won’t get control of ambergris production, meaning the Fleet will have to do without adequate instel communications, meaning its chances against those centerward things will go down to zit. They aren’t your candy-ass Ulantonids, planning to give us a fair shake after they whip us.”

“On the other hand,” Namaguchi suggested, “if we get the Fishers under the gun in time, we’ll not only be able to equip the Fleet, we’ll have the potential of the Stars’ End weaponry. Assuming it’s adaptable.”

“There,” Beckhart told the others. “You see why Akido is the Crown Prince around here. You take a stick and whack on him long enough and he actually starts thinking. Let’s do a little brainstorming, gentlemen. Along the lines of turning our liabilities into assets.”

Jones suggested, “Regarding the Four slash Six paradox. The right leak of the right info at the right time at the right place might give Luna Command a public opinion base that would make the kill a matter of popular demand. There are some real pros in the Public Information Office. They’ve done a hell of a job creating a climate of trepidation with hints about trouble in the March. Suppose they let a little truth wriggle out now? Just enough so people start asking what kind of horror we’re covering up by giving our friends from Ulant a bad press. There isn’t anything the public won’t swallow quicker than a good conspiracy theory. Especially a cover-up conspiracy.”

Beckhart chuckled. “What is this? Two brains working in one room? At the same time? Gentlemen, that’s a first. So. We’ve got a couple of things to work on. Will they let us orchestrate the show?”

“Why don’t we just do it? It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“But it could be the last. We’ve reached a crossroads. We—and I mean everybody in Luna Command—are going to have to fine-tune the Luna Command machine. It won’t have the internal tolerance for playing games with each other. We don’t have much time to get ready for this centerward race . . . That plan is simple. We’re going to hit them first, hit them hard, and keep hitting them with everything we’ve got.”

“The way Ulant did us?”

“Exactly. The Prime Defender’s General Staff is doing the planning, based on their intelligence. She’ll modify it daily, keeping as close to the realtime situation as she can. We come up with something, it’ll be programed in. If the centerward crowd do something unexpected, that’ll go in too. They’ve sent out a whole fleet of self-destruct equipped, instelled scout ships to keep track of what’s happening.”

“Sir, that strategy didn’t work for Ulant before.”

“It may not work this time, but it’s the best shot we’ve got. Ulant’s intelligence analyses paint a pretty grim picture. The numbers . . . You’ll see the tapes. While you’re watching, remember that you’re only seeing one battle fleet. Ulant has identified another four. They just seem to skip from star to star behind a swarm of scouts, coming out the Arm, scouring every inhabited world of any sentient life.” The comm hummed. Beckhart stabbed it with one finger. “Beckhart. Yes, sir.”

The sound was uni-directional, the picture flat-faced television. The others could not hear, nor could they identify the caller. After listening awhile, Beckhart said, “Very well, sir,” in an unhappy tone. He punched out.

“That was the C.S.N.. They’ve decided to go with Four slash Six. But they’re not going to let us run it. He said they’ll use von Drachau, but R and D will have operational control.”

“R and D? What the hell?”

“What have they got going over there? What don’t we know?”

The comm hummed again. Beckhart answered, said, “This one’s for you, Charlie.”

Jones sat on the edge of the vast desk, turned the comm his way. “Go ahead.” In a few seconds his tall, lean, black frame began quivering with excitement. “Good. All right. Thank you.”

“Well?” Beckhart growled.

“One of my Electronic Intercept people. They just picked up a message from the Starfisher Council to Confederation Senate. Routine request for clearance to hold an ambergris auction. They asked for The Broken Wings. Usual rules and mutual obligations. The same request they send whenever they hold auction on a Confederation world.”

“The Broken Wings is close to Stars’ End. Any other reason to be excited?”

“Payne’s Fleet is going to sponsor.”

Beckhart stared at his hands for more than a minute. When he looked up his expression had become beatific. “Gentlemen, the gods love us after all. Cancel all leaves. Cancel any computation capacity loans we have out. Pass the word that we’re going on overtime. Everybody, including the janitors and shredder operators. I’ve got a feeling we’ll find a rose in this dungheap yet.” He laughed demoniacally. “Eyes open and ears to the ground gentlemen. Everything that comes in from now on—and I mean
everything
—goes into the master program for correlation. And have the programming teams start working backward. I want the biggest and best goddamned model outside the High Command Strategic Analysis. Let’s see if we can’t do this all up in one big, pretty package.”

Beckhart departed his desk and unlocked his personal bar. He took out glasses and the half gallon of genuine Old Earth Scotch he saved for occasions of millennial significance. “A toast to successes and victories. Hopefully ours.” He poured doubles.

Six: 3049 AD
The Main Sequence

The five great harvestships barely moved. Their velocity relative to the debris was a scant three kilometers per hour. Gnatlike service ships flitted before the head and flanks of their line, nudging any flying mountain that threatened collision.

It was almost an embarrassment, the way those swift monsters of the spatial deeps had to crawl. Elsewhere they could have sprinted off and left light lagging like a toddler behind an Olympic runner. Here they could not match the pace of a lazily strolling old man.

Those battered survivors of Payne’s Fleet had been making the passage for a week.

The dense boulder screen gave way to a less crowded region occupied principally by asteroidal chunks the size of small moons. The harvestfleet accelerated. The line dispersed.

“Well, you kept asking about the Yards,” Amy told benRabi. “We’re there.” She indicated the viewscreen they had been watching.

“Yes, but . . . ” All Moyshe saw was a big asteroid illuminated by
Danion’s
powerful lights. A few smaller boulders drifted around it. Not one star was visible in the background. All outside light was screened by the dust of the nebula.

Danion
seemed to be stalking that big asteroid.

“But what?”

“There’s nothing here. We’re in the tail end of nowhere. I expected a hidden planet. Maybe even Osiris. Something First Expansion. Strange cities, drydocks . . . ”

“Planetary docks? How could we take
Danion
into atmosphere? Or lift her out of a gravity well? Most of your Navy ships wouldn’t try that.”

“But you’d have to have thousands of people to work on a ship this big. Tens of thousands. Not to mention a hell of an industrial base, and one all-time grandfather of a drydock.”

“The dock’s right in front of you.”

“What? Where?”

“Watch and see.”

He watched. And he saw.

A gargantuan piece of rock began separating from the asteroid. In time it exposed a brightly lit interior vast enough to accept a harvestship. Diminutive tugs swarmed out. Some pushed the cork. Some hurried toward
Danion
like eager bees to a clover patch.

BenRabi saw a glow in the remote distance. Another asteroid was opening its stone mouth.

“We’re going inside?”

“You got it. You catch on quick, don’t you?”

“Smart mouth.”

“They’ll lock the door behind us. Then they’ll flood the chamber with air. The work goes faster that way. And the dock will hide us from any snoopers who wander by.”

“Who would come poking around in a mess like this? That would be asking to get fine-ground between those flying millstones.”

BenRabi was less surprised by the existence of the nebula than by the Seiners’ willingness to hazard it. Similar asteroidal shoals existed inside several dust nebulae.

“But they come anyway. Moyshe, this’s the Three Sky Nebula.”

“No. Not really? Yes. I guess you’re serious.”

One of the most dramatic actions of the Ulantonid War had occurred in the outer shoals of the Three Sky Nebula. After the war, the repatriated human survivors had circulated stories of having seen abandoned alien ships there. Some had been wrecks, some had appeared to be intact.

Three Sky had won an immediate reputation as a Sargasso of space. The treasure-seekers, xeno-archaeologists, and official investigators who went there hunting the alien ships were seldom seen again.

“The expeditions . . . There must have been fifteen or twenty that disappeared. What happened to them?”

“We interned them before they could stumble onto something and run home to report it. They’re doing what they came to do. They just can’t go home.”

“Why risk setting up here if the traffic gets so heavy?”

“The risk isn’t that big. We don’t have visitors very often. Not when they always disappear. And, of course, it’s such an unlikely place to look for us.”

“Still . . . There’s been talk at Luna Command, off and on, about sending a squadron to back up an investigation. In case it’s McGraws or Sangaree that have been getting the others.”

“If that happened, we’d fight. And we’d win. Only a fool would attack what we’ve made out of Three Sky. We’ve been here since before the Ulantonid War. That’s a lot of time to get ready. It’d be almost like guerrilla warfare. We think we can hold off Confederation if we ever have to.”

“I think you’re a little over-optimistic. For people who don’t have the muscle to duke it out with the sharks. I’ll let you know for sure after I’ve looked things over.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I haven’t met a Seiner yet who had the least idea of just how big and strong Confederation is. Or how tough Luna Command can be when they put their minds to it. Or that your weapons systems are prehistoric relics.
Danion’s
got a ton of firepower, but one Empire Class battleship could carve this whole harvestfleet up like a side of beef and never get in a sweat.”

“I think you’re probably too impressed with your Navy. Our shortcomings were calculated into our defense plans.”

BenRabi decided not to argue. Each of them was telling the truth as he or she knew it. “Are the creches here?”

“Some. All of them will be someday. It’s a big job, civilizing a nebula.”

“Mainly an engineering problem, I’d think.”

“Yes. But it takes time and money. Especially money. We have to buy everything we can’t manufacture ourselves. Which means we have to wait for the auctions because our credit is pretty slim.”

“Ah. I begin to see why the good doctor was making do with primitive equipment.”

“We’ve colonized more than seven thousand asteroids, Moyshe,” Amy proudly declared. “But we’ve only just begun. They’re all cramped. The harvestships are cramped. Our other hidden places are overcrowded. We’ve been taking in Confederation’s dropouts for two hundred years. The ones who didn’t become McGraws or run away to the outworlds.”

Outworlds was a word as relative as
yonder.
For benRabi, born an Old Earther, it meant anything off Old Earth. Around Luna Command it meant any planet not one of the original seven founders of Confederation. Those seven usually called themselves The Inner Worlds. But out on the fringes of Confederation outworlds were human planets not signatory to the federal pact. BenRabi was unsure which meaning Amy wanted to convey.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “Why here?”

“Because of the industrial advantages. The stories those internees took back were true. There’s a lot of salvageable stuff here. We’ve identified over thirty thousand wrecks and abandoned ships. Built by seven different races.”