The Middle of Nowhere Page 17

  In hyperstate all ships are equally vulnerable. The size of the vessel is irrelevant. If you can disrupt its hyperstate envelope, you can destroy the vessel.

  In hyperstate all ships are equally dangerous. The size of the vessel is irrelevant. If a ship can approach close enough, it can fire a hyperstate torpedo.

  All that really matters is how fast a ship can travel and how far it can see. The size of the hyperstate envelope determines the FTL velocity as well as the range of the hyperstate scanning lens; so the real measure of a starship’s power is determined only by the size of its singularity and the sophistication of its fluctuator assemblies.

  The more that Korie studied this dilemma, the more he began to appreciate it as a problem in three-dimensional chess.

  The farther a ship can see, the less likely it is that another ship can sneak up on it unnoticed and launch a hyperstate torpedo. The faster a ship can travel, the more likely it will be able to approach an enemy vessel successfully and launch its torpedoes before the target can react to either escape or launch torpedoes of its own. Therefore, a ship’s strategic abilities, both offensive and defensive, are intrinsically linked.

  The only way a ship can avoid detection from a great distance is to mute its hyperstate envelope so that it no longer resonates with such a high profile; but this technique effectively blinds it, as well as severely cuts its realized velocity. On the other hand, it also allows a ship to sneak in under the threshold of noise and approach much closer before detection by the target.

  This train of thought troubled Korie, leading ultimately to another set of scenarios. The most immediately effective were those where one or more warships muted their envelopes to mimic much smaller, weaker vessels, thus luring their victims into striking range.

  There were long-term scenarios to be aware of too, also involving mimicry and subterfuge. Korie was beginning to understand the real nature of the beast. The war would not be won with superior strength or firepower; those had been nullified. Nor would it be won with methodical strategies and tactics; those too had been leveled by the nature of the playing field. No—the battles would be fought as a duel of perseverance and perception; they would be played as chess matches to the death; and they would be won or lost in the minds of the opposing captains.

  For one brief paralyzing flash, he saw the future; silent starships dueling in the dark, feinting, thrusting, parrying and dodging, each one jockeying for the one moment of advantage that would allow it to deliver the death-blow to the other. It terrified him. He recognized that this was the fundamental weakness of the Alliance.

  It wasn’t enough for the Alliance to launch ships and send them bravely out into the night. The insufficiency of the effort was suddenly apparent to him. The Morthans were also launching ships; but the Morthans had taken war as a way of life. They were a race of self-designed, self-created beings, no longer recognizable as human—genetically engineered and biologically augmented to be superhumans, more-than humans. They had taken the disciplines of the martial arts and channeled their whole culture into the production of warriors who did not know how to lose a battle. Every single Morthan captain, and every member of every Morthan crew, would be an expert in the art of mayhem; every vessel would be commanded by a grandmaster in the art of death.

  By contrast, the captains of the Allied starships were mere children. A few years of schooling, a few classes at the War College, were no match for a lifetime of discipline and purpose. The Allied fleet would be at terrible risk unless the new paradigms of interstellar conflict were fully understood and assimilated by each and every starship commander.

  The imminence of the war terrified Jon Korie. He spent many sleepless nights, trembling in fear over the possibilities of the conflict that he was certain was becoming more and more inevitable. He resolved to send Carol and the boys as far away from the rift as they could afford.

  The next time the ship touched port, he uploaded all of his writings to the immediate attention of the War College, and he prayed that he was in time.

  The Boat

  Gatineau hesitated before the docking tube. The memory of the last time was still too recent, still too intense. He still ached, and his skin was still discolored in places.

  “Go on,” said Brik. “I’ll be right behind you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” gulped Gatineau. “I don’t want you grabbing me. Give me a chance to do it myself.” He took another deep breath—then, surprisingly, he seized the hatch-frame and pushed himself headfirst into the tube. It was as if he wanted to get it over with as fast as possible. It was as if he wanted to prove something to Brik. But in truth, it was because he wanted to prove it to himself most of all.

  He pulled himself into the boat clumsily, but not disgracefully so. He was starting to figure out this free fall business after all.

  Commander Brik came swooping easily after him. The big Morthan tucked his knees and head into a 180-degree tumble, caught a handhold and ended up reversed, facing back toward the hatch again, hitting the panel lightly to close and secure it. The entire maneuver had been as skilled and graceful as if executed by a professional dancer.

  After a moment, Gatineau remembered to close his mouth. He wondered if he’d ever look as good in free fall. Probably not, he realized. He wasn’t a Morthan.

  Chief Leen looked up from what he was doing—he was repacking the Feinberger modules in the decontam unit—and grunted. “Give me two more minutes.

  “Go forward,” Brik nodded to Gatineau. “You’ve got the conn.”

  “Yes, sir. You’ll be in the right seat?”

  “No, I won’t.” To Gatineau’s look, Brik added, “Don’t worry. Your copilot is quite competent.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” said Gatineau, grumbling to himself, not hearing the amusement in Brik’s tone. “What’s it going to be this time? A moebius joystick? Another star-pixie? Left-handed anti-matter?” He pulled himself forward through the cabin of the boat and through the hatch to the flight deck. Without even looking to the copilot, he said, “Whatever jokes you and Mr. Brik have planned, just forget about them. Just leave me alone to do this, okay?” He pulled his headset on and started clicking his displays to life, setting them to green one after the other.

  “I don’t have anything planned at all,” replied Commander Korie. “At least, nothing more than getting you certified as quickly as possible.”

  “Oh, sir!” Gatineau blurted hastily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t apologize, Captain—” Korie said, stressing the last word. “You’re in the left seat. You’re giving the orders.”

  It was the word Captain that stopped Gatineau in midgulp. “Captain?” he asked.

  “That’s your rank while you’re in charge of this boat. Your authority is absolute.”

  “You mean . . . if I ordered you to get me a cup of coffee, you’d have to do it?”

  Smiling, Korie nodded. “That’s how it works. And if I didn’t get it for you, you could bring me up on charges of insubordination. I don’t recommend it though. Remember, I’m still acting captain of the Star Wolf. So part of the lesson you need to learn this afternoon is about cooperation and respect among officers.”

  “I’m not an officer, sir. I’m just—”

  “Stop,” said Korie quietly.

  Gatineau stopped.

  “Let me tell you something. I don’t care what your rank is. I want you to learn how to do every job on the ship. And I want you unafraid to do it if you have to. If something happens to everyone around you, I don’t want you standing there with your finger up your nose, wondering what to do next. Do you know the story of Ensign McGrew?”

  “Everybody does. It’s apocryphal. McGrew was court-martialed for taking command—”

  “It’s not apocryphal. It happened. And you have it wrong. He was court-martialed for not taking command. All of his superior officers were killed. Instead of taking responsibility, he panicked and called for help. To be fair
, it was his first tour of duty, he was still being trained, and he should never have been put in that situation. Nevertheless, naval regulations required him to act, and he did not. Had they not been dead, his superior officers would also have been up before a board of inquiry for failing to train McGrew appropriately. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Korie waited.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “Um, what should I do now?”

  “You’re the captain. You tell me.”

  “Uhh—oh, right. Uh, prepare for departure. Let’s do the checklist.” Gatineau struggled to remember the routine. “Systems Analysis?”

  Korie glanced at his board. “Green.”

  “Check. Uh, confidence?”

  “Eighty-six.”

  “Eighty-six?”

  “Don’t panic. These ducks are supposed to be survivable with confidence as low as thirty.”

  “But eighty-six?”

  “Eighty-six it, Gatineau,” Korie said firmly. “It’s okay. Trust me.”

  “Yes, sir—check. Life support?”

  “Optimal, with minor cautions. Don’t worry, we’re not going out that far. And we have starsuits in the locker in case we have to swim back.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Gatineau looked to Korie. Korie’s expression was blandly noncommittal. “Never mind. Check,” said Gatineau. “Propulsion? Navigation?”

  “Green and green. All systems go.”

  “Check.” Gatineau bent to his own displays, running a second set of checks just to be certain he hadn’t missed anything. He hadn’t. He exhaled loudly, started to put his hands on the controls, then abruptly pulled them back. “I’m really in command?” he asked Korie.

  “Yes, Captain, you are,” Korie replied calmly.

  “Ah,” said Gatineau. He leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. “Copilot, take her out.”

  Korie’s smile widened only a fraction. “Nice try, son.” He nodded at the controls. “You show me how it’s done.”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying,” said Gatineau, allowing himself a smile. He reached forward again, and snapped open the communication channel. “Starboat ready.”

  “Anytime, Captain,” Hodel’s voice came back from the Bridge.

  “Roger that. Thank you.” Gatineau unclipped a safety cover and flipped the switch beneath it. There was a soft thump from behind them, and they were floating free.

  “Good job,” said Korie. “Take us out ten thousand kilometers, then flipover for the return.” He glanced at the time. “Don’t take more than two hours getting us there.”

  Gatineau did the calculations in his head. “Sir? That’s—”

  “Yes. It’s quite a ride. Do it, son.” Korie was already unstrapping himself.

  “Uh, yes, sir.” Gatineau shook his head, not quite certain why the commander wanted to put so much distance between himself and the mother ship, but he began setting up the program on his display.

  Korie floated up out of his chair and started to pull himself aftward. “Try not to bump into anything,” he said. “When you’ve got the program locked in, call HARLIE, have him double-check it. If HARLIE says it’s okay, run it and come back aft for a cup of coffee.”

  “Sir? Aren’t you going to check me?”

  Korie paused, one hand on either side of the hatch frame. He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I need to?”

  “Uh, no, sir,” Gatineau said quickly.

  “Good. You’ll do fine.” Korie added, “Oh, and watch out for sparkle-dancers.”

  “No star-pixies this time?” Gatineau muttered.

  “Of course not. We already have one. In the ship’s corn, remember?”

  “Huh?” Gatineau turned around in his seat to stare after Korie, but the senior officer was already gone. How did he know about that?

  Gatineau turned forward again. It was a simple course, but he checked it six times before sending it home to HARLIE. The intelligence engine chewed it over for half a millisecond before sending it back. Without comment.

  “It’s okay?” Gatineau asked.

  “If it wasn’t, don’t you think I would have said something?” replied HARLIE blandly.

  “Oh, yes, of course. But uh, don’t you have any advice for me? I mean, how it could have been more efficient or something?”

  “I have no advice,” said HARLIE. “I assume you programmed exactly what you wanted.”

  “Uh, yes, I did.”

  “Then no advice is necessary, is it?”

  “Oh, I get it,” said Gatineau. “It’s like that story they tell you about in training. You know the one. ‘You’re the Captain. You decide.’”

  “I wouldn’t know,” replied HARLIE. “Although I do have the training manuals in storage. Do you need to access them now?”

  “No, thanks,” said Gatineau. “I’m getting the hang of it.”

  “Have a good flight then.” HARLIE signed off.

  Gatineau shook his head. Did intelligence engines do that on purpose, or what?

  He initiated his program and watched his board. The display went green; the program was running. The engines were soundless; there was nothing to feel, nothing to hear. Even so, Gatineau imagined he could feel the faintest bit of acceleration pushing him back into his couch. It was microacceleration, but it was cumulative. They’d spend most of the first hour just climbing to speed. Ten thousand kilometers wasn’t really that far, not if you were adding two kilometers per hour per second. At the end of seventy-two hundred seconds, they would have a realized velocity of fourteen thousand kph. Their averaged velocity for the same time would be seven thousand klicks. They could turn their engines off and coast to the flipover point. The math was simple. Any middle-school student could do it.

  But of course, when you’re sitting alone in the left seat, and the lives of yourself and three other people are at stake, suddenly all the equations take on a whole other flavor.

  Gatineau wondered if he should stay in his seat the whole two hours or if Korie had really meant it about coming aft for coffee. He really wanted the chance to . . . well, just sit with the exec. But—on the other hand, what if something went wrong? He was responsible, wasn’t he? On the third hand, if he didn’t go, would Korie and the others be insulted? Or, if he did go, would he look overeager? On the fourth hand, he was the captain here. That was part of the test, wasn’t it? If he didn’t go aft, that would make him look uncertain. Wouldn’t it?

  “You know something?” Gatineau said to himself, as he unbuckled his belt. “You think too much.” And then he added, “Yeah, you can say that again.” He headed aft.

  Korie glanced at his watch as Gatineau floated back. “Being careful?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The exec nodded him toward a seat. “Strap in. We have some serious talking to do and I don’t want you floating around the cabin. There’s coffee there. Be careful, it’s still hot.” Without waiting to see if Gatineau was obeying, Korie turned back to Leen. “So, what do you think, Chief?”

  The older man grunted. He scratched his ear unhappily. “I think we should evacuate the crew, then evacuate the air. Then drop the ship into the nearest star.”

  “We can’t do that,” Korie said. He was surprised to hear himself saying, “Failure is not an option.” He noticed Brik glancing sideways at him with a faintly amused expression.

  “We’ll never detox the ship, you know that,” Leen countered. “Even the crew is starting to figure it out.”

  Korie sucked at his coffee. “Okay. Can we catch it? Trap it somehow?”

  Brik snorted. “It’s already trapped. The problem is we’re in the cage with it.”

  “I know that,” said Korie, slightly annoyed. “But we have to walk through the steps anyway. I want to ask the easy questions first. Is there anything we can do to catch it or kill it?”

  Gatineau looked from one to the other, not quite following the conversati
on. He was afraid to ask. They were talking as if there was something on the ship.

  As if reading his mind, Brik annotated the conversation for his benefit. He said, “Your star-pixie was real.”

  “Oh,” said Gatineau softly, not quite assimilating the fact. The star-pixie was real?

  Revelations

  “It’s a Morthan imp,” said Korie. “There wasn’t one Morthan aboard this ship. There were two. An assassin and an imp. Cinnabar brought the imp with him when he invaded.”

  The others waited while Gatineau assimilated this information.

  “Oh,” said Gatineau. Then, “Oh!” And finally, “Oh.”

  “He got it,” remarked Leen.

  Gatineau was already putting pieces together. “So that’s what you went EVA to talk about!”

  “He’s observant,” noted Brik.

  To Korie, he said, “And you had to bawl him out in front of everybody, so no one would know what you were really doing—”

  “And quick,” agreed Korie to Brik. To Gatineau, he said, “We have to assume that it’s not safe to talk on the Star Wolf. We don’t know how completely our integrity has been compromised. We have to assume it’s total. We can’t even discuss this with HARLIE. We have to assume he’s been compromised too.”

  “Even the personal codes?”

  “Yes. We have to make that assumption too. It’s much more likely that the imp hasn’t gotten into everything it could; only those domains important to its purpose; but we don’t know what it’s done, so we have to assume the worst.” Korie sipped at his coffee through a straw. Gatineau did likewise. He made a face. It wasn’t the best way to drink coffee; if you couldn’t smell it, you couldn’t really taste it.

  “All right,” said Korie, continuing. “Brik and I went EVA so I could brief him about the situation. We ended up briefing each other. Brik had figured it out too.”

  “Are you sure your EVA was secure?” asked Leen.

  “We went out on tethers, set up a static shield, and talked for a half hour, helmet-to-helmet communication only. If the imp is as smart and as paranoid as Brik says, then it has to assume that we know it’s aboard the ship by now. So we’re not assuming that the imp doesn’t know that we talked about it. But we are assuming that it probably doesn’t know the specifics of what we said.” Korie added, “By the way, you both need to know that the first thing I did was apologize to Mr. Brik for deliberately embarrassing him.”