A Talent for War

XII.

I LOADED THE crystal, sat down, and adjusted my headband. "Now, Jacob."

"You’ve had a long trip, Alex. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait until tomorrow?"

"Now, Jacob."

Pause. "As usual, you have two options: participant or observer?"

"Observer."

"Historical or alternative?"

"Historical. Let’s see it the way it happened."

"Keep in mind this is a reconstruction of events from best evidence. Some dramatization is involved. Do you wish to observe from Corsarius or Kudasai?"

I thought it over. Experiencing the final action aboard the doomed ship would make for high drama. And there would be the challenge of seeing whether I could ride it out until the program itself snatched me from danger. On the other hand, the view from Tarien Sim’s battle cruiser would be more informative, and less subject to the imagination of the writers. "Kudasai," I said. The room darkened, and the texture of the cushions changed.

"The sons of bitches are out in force today." Wearing the uniform of the Resistance Confederacy, Tarien Sim stood before a large oval port, staring moodily at the swirl of boulders and dust circling the gas giant Barcandrik. Far in the distance, the rubble blended into luminous rings of haunting beauty, thick and full and bright as any I’ve ever seen. Three shepherd moons hung like antique lanterns along the track, one nearby, all equally spaced.

Sim’s troubled features were silhouetted against the lower rim of the planet itself, whose yellow-green atmosphere churned in dazzling sunlight. There was no way to mistake him: the stark gray eyes of a man who had, perhaps, seen too much; the thick neck and stocky body, giving way to middle-age spread; the neatly trimmed, reddish brown hair and beard. Shorter than his brother, and (aside from the eyes) not one who would easily engage the attention. An individual of rather common appearance. Until one hears his voice.

It is a rolling bass, backed by unshakable conviction. It sounded like the real Tarien, and my blood heated a bit. (I’ve always felt I was immune to crowd-rousers and jingoistic appeals. Yet, the sound of that familiar voice stirred something too deep to grasp easily.)

His hands were clasped behind his back. On an overhead situation display, lights blinked in multicolored patterns.

Good evening, Mr. Benedict. The words came from a speaker on my display panel. It was male, controlled, clipped. Welcome to Rigel I am the program monitor, and I will be your guide through the simulation. You are on the bridge of the Kudasai, the lone battle cruiser possessed by the Confederates at this stage of hostilities. It was contributed by a private foundation on Earth, and is seeing its first action. It is at present hidden within the envelope of gas and dust circling Barcandrik, forming its inner ring. Ship’s captain is Mendel LeMara. Tarien Sim is technically an observer.

"Why’s he here at all?" I asked. "Seems like he picked the worst possible time. This must have looked like the end for all of them."

That is why. He does not expect to survive Rigel. You should keep in mind that, at this point, it appears that all his efforts to acquire assistance have failed. Earth and Rimway continue to vacillate, no major power has yet declared an intention to intervene, and the Confederate navy is now down to a score of ships. The only good news in all this has been the revolution on Toxicon, which may be well on the way to placing a friendly government in power, and ending that world’s war with Muri. In fact, help will come from that quarter soon, but the allies are out of time.

Consequently, Tarien has elected to share the fate of his brother and his comrades.

I counted approximately two hundred enemy vessels on my display. Most were escorts and destroyers; but three heavy battle cruisers anchored the force.

Arrayed against them were twenty frigates, a couple of destroyers, and the Kudasai.

Mendel LeMara was tall, copper-skinned, grim-featured in the half-light of the bridge. He stood by one of the tracking stations, his lean, muscular form outlined against the battle displays. The officers at their various posts were subdued, their emotions masked. Tarien Sim stared thoughtfully through his portal at the big planet, which was in its third quarter. He seemed detached from the tension on the bridge. He has accepted the inevitable, I thought. He swung suddenly, met my gaze, and nodded encouragement.

It just missed being a star, said the Monitor. Seventy years from now, there will be an unsuccessful attempt to ignite it. It is the sixth planet in a system of eleven worlds. Abonai is the fourth, and it is near its closest point of approach.

"Why not," I asked the Monitor, "just clear out now? What’s so important about Abonai?"

Abonai is the last of the frontier worlds of the original Confederacy. All the others have fallen: Eschaton, Sanusar, the City on the Crag, even Dellaconda itself Consequently it has enormous symbolic value. With its loss, the war ceases to mean anything; Sim and his allies become exiles, a band of nomads utterly dependent on the assistance of governments that have demonstrated their indifference, or their fear, time and again.

"We don’t think," the Captain was saying over the intership link, "that they know about the Kudasai. They’re only expecting the usual mixed bag of frigates and destroyers. It’s been a long time since we had any real firepower in this war, and we just may be able to deliver a hell of a punch today." He sounded almost exhilarated. Around the bridge, the officers exchanged sober glances.

"We have some other advantages," he continued. "Volunteers from Toxicon skirmished with the Ashiyyurean main body, and drew a substantial number of escorts off. They will not arrive in time to participate in the general action." He took a deep breath. "I know you’ve heard the rumors that Earth has announced its intention to intervene. I have to tell you that we have been unable to confirm the story. I have no doubt it is only a matter of time before they do so, but we cannot expect any help at present.

"The frigates will engage within a few minutes. Contact will be at a range of about a million and a quarter kilometers from our position. Our units will try to make it look good, and then they’ll break off and come this way. We expect the mutes to follow." The bridge illumination dimmed, and a holographic projection of Barcandrik appeared. The gas giant floated amid its wispy rings. Half a dozen satellites were visible. The contending fleets appeared as points of light, the Ashiyyur white, the Dellacondans scarlet. The three big cruisers blazed among their escorts.

The two fleets approached each other on the other side of the planet, well beyond its system of rings and moons. The Confederate frigates were moving rapidly toward the enemy flank, while the Ashiyyur formation rearranged itself to receive the attack.

"We are not visible to the approaching ships," said LeMara. "And we are not alone." One of the monitors brought up the Corsarius. It glittered silver and blue in the hard sunlight. "With a little luck," he continued, "we will be among them before they know their danger."

I’d become completely absorbed. I knew that the people around me were simulats, and the ships and worlds mock-ups, but I put the knowledge aside. I could feel my heart beating, and I wondered what Mendel LeMara’s combat experience was, and whether he would still be on the bridge when the Kudasai gets blown up in a few weeks. And I thought about Sim’s mysterious crew of drifters and deserters, who were now on board the Corsarius.

The Seven.

I watched the attack. And though I knew it, knew it well by now, I was caught up in the drama all the same.

A squadron often frigates and four destroyers skirmished with the leading elements as planned, relying heavily on a moderate technological advantage to offset the sheer numbers of the Ashiyyur. The enemy vessels were bunched too closely for combat. They were consequently more cautious in using their firepower; no mute captain wanted to be charged with damaging a friendly ship. The Dellacondans, on the other hand, as at Hrinwhar, could hardly fail to find inviting targets. And for several minutes they ran wild among their enemy.

But two destroyers disappeared suddenly off the screens. And then, in quick succession, a pair of frigates.

I waited for the withdrawal, but they held on. For seventeen minutes they raced among the mute warships, and when the signal to retreat finally came, only five ships broke out. They dropped back toward Abonai, which, thanks to good planning and some luck, lay directly through Barcandrik’s dusty system.

Clouds of destroyers and frigates wheeled to pursue.

Toward us.

One of the cruisers, unable to maneuver easily, was left describing an arc that would keep it well out of range for the duration of the action.

I knew what was coming: Abonai was about to fall, and the Dellacondans would dissolve as a fighting force. But the Ashiyyur would pay a heavy price for this victory. The death of Christopher Sim would sweep away neutralists on world after world. As a result of Rigel, the modern Confederacy would be born, and its first act would be the creation of an allied navy that, within a year, would turn back the Ashiyyur, and ultimately drive them across the Arm and beyond the Perimeter from which they had come.

The Kudasai would survive another few weeks, just long enough to see the intervention. At Arkady, it would die fighting alongside the first units from Earth. It would take Tarien Sim with it.

The crew of the Kudasai prepared for battle. Weapons went to full power, hatches closed, and the power cells built up a full charge. Voice circuits were busy, though I could understand little of the traffic.

LeMara strapped himself into the command chair. He looked over at Sim, who still stood by his port. "Best resume your seat, sir," he said gently.

Tarien’s eyes were hooded, but he touched the communicator stud on the arm of his chair, and glanced at the Captain. LeMara nodded, and he opened a channel. "This is Tarien Sim," he said. "I want you to know I am proud to be with you. There are many who are saying that the future rides with us today. If it does, it couldn’t be in better hands. God bless you."

Beside us, swimming silently out of the dust, came the Corsarius.

Someone was calling off ranges.

Rigel was feeble from this distance, and the dust and gas through which we floated was illuminated by Barcandrik’s gloomy light.

In the actual battle, said the Monitor, the time lapse between the beginning of the retreat and the arrival of the Dellacondans within visual range of the Kudasai was several hours. We’ve compressed things a bit If you look at the infrared monitor, you’ll notice a cluster of stars brightening rapidly. Our ships are quite close now.

One blew up almost immediately. Only seven of the warships will survive this engagement. Contrary to common opinion, Sim committed a series of errors at Rigel in both planning and execution. Nowhere else, incidentally, did he directly confront a major enemy force. His strength throughout the war lay in his hit-and-run tactics. Time after time, when enemy units came out of hyper, Sim was waiting. His usual technique was to pick off a couple of victims, and then withdraw before Ashiyyur crews recovered from the disorientation that occurs during the jump.

He may have felt that he simply had no choice at Rigel And he never before possessed a warship with the firepower of the Kudasai. It must have been very tempting to want to use it.

By now, he and his allies have been losing for three years. We spoke earlier of the symbolic importance of Abonai, as the last of the Confederate worlds. Fortunately, the Ashiyyur do not share human perceptions, and may not have recognized the significance of their intended conquest. Had they done so, they would have come with everything they could assemble. Instead, they hurriedly created a couple of task forces and sent them in.

The deep-throated rumble of power being allocated to engines and weapons continued to build.

"So Sim staked everything on a single roll of the dice."

Yes.

"And he lost."

Only his life.

Yes: he won the war here. But how much satisfaction could that have been?

Activity on the bridge was picking up and, at a command from LeMara, we began to move.

Under actual combat conditions, of course, the observation ports would be closed. We’re leaving them open for you. It won’t matter much: the ships are too distant, and events happen too quickly. But we’ve tried to make adjustments for purposes of intelligibility.

"Mute destroyers in the area," said a voice in the commlink. "They seem to have got here first."

"Let them go."

I could see moons now, blobs of thick light drifting in the clouds.

We were accelerating.

"Captain, we have a readout on the leading pursuit elements: two cruisers, seventeen destroyers, nineteen or twenty escorts. Additional vessels are straggling, but should not be a factor in the first phase."

The two forces were clearly visible in infrared: a fountain of stars forming over the big planet, needling through the dark. It looked like a pair of comets.

"Destroyer squadron is positioned and ready to join us on signal."

The two cruisers were each screened by six or seven escorts, and were now close behind their targets.

From Corsarius came the voice of Christopher Sim, directed to his fleeing force: "Spirit, this is Truculent. Squadron will brake full thrust on my command. Allow the head of the line to overtake you, engage, and prepare to maneuver out as planned. We’ll extract the sting."

We rose out of the debris. The enemy line was immediately in front of us.

We watched them pass, the Ashiyyur. Their ships were clean points of light, sparkling against the dust and detritus, and the void beyond Barcandrik. "They haven’t seen us yet," said the navigator. "Everyone lock down."

We continued to accelerate. I could feel the gentle push of the engines.

I checked my harness. The Monitor was silent. I understood some of what was happening. The velocities of the Ashiyyur were so great, that even if they discovered us prematurely, there would be little they could do to prevent our getting a few good shots at the cruisers. On the other hand, we’d get no second chance if we missed, since that same velocity would carry them quickly out of range. Total firing time available to us, according to my screens, would be about eight seconds, with less than half that amount considered a quality opportunity.

I tried to relax, wondering why I was reacting as though the issue were in doubt. The Dellacondans would succeed in taking the cruisers by surprise. Kudasai would destroy one, and the Corsarius would cripple the other. But a series of strikes would strip her of her screens. And, while the Kudasai hurried to her assistance, the mortally wounded mute warship would finish her off. With a nuke.

Tarien was absorbed in thought. I watched the Corsarius take station about a kilometer away. Briefly, sunlight flashed on the hull. In some trick of perception, the black harridan strained forward. Her weapons clusters were primed and ready, her sensor dishes rotating slowly, the lights on her bridge dimmed. For all that, there was something almost insubstantial about her, as though she were already part phantom.

A klaxon sounded, its deep-throated shriek echoing through the ship.

"Something behind us," said one of the deck officers. She was barely able to conceal her surprise. "Coming fast. Looks like twelve, maybe thirteen destroyers."

"Confirmed," came another voice. "They’ve locked onto us."

"How the hell’d they manage that?" growled the Captain. "Plotting: what’s their arrival time?"

"If present rate of deceleration continues, eleven minutes."

I listened to the ship’s background noises. My overall impression was that the Kudasai was holding its collective breath.

I was a bit nonplussed myself. I’d had no idea they’d run into this sort of problem. And I wondered how, under the circumstances, they could possibly have executed their designs on the main body of the pursuers. Which, historically, they did.

Christopher Sim’s voice shattered the stillness. "Mallet, this is Truculent. Break off attack. Withdraw."

"Wait a minute," I said. "Monitor, there’s something wrong here."

"Mendel." Sim’s voice was strained. "It’s essential that we save the Kudasai. Get it out of here. I’ll try to cover."

"No!" Tarien’s big fist came down on the arm of his chair, and he glared at the overhead screen, across which the oncoming destroyers were swarming. "Proceed with the attack, Chris. We have no choice!"

"Can’t do it," said his brother. "They’ll catch us long before we can get close to the targets. We’re going to fight destroyers today whether we want to or not, and we’d better concentrate on choosing our ground. They’ve got too much here for us to risk getting caught in the open. Head for Barcandrik."

"Wait a minute," I objected. "This isn’t the way it happened."

Please do not interfere, Alex.

"Well, what the hell is going on here, Monitor? I don’t recall ever having heard about a destroyer attack at the last minute."

You were not there. How do you know what really happened?

"I’ve read the books."

LeMara’s voice: "Stand by to divert power to Armstrong units. If we have to, we’ll jump out."

Tarien shook his head fiercely. "That’ll be the end," he rumbled. "Don’t do it."

We moved away hard, and I was crushed into my seat. The environmental support system, which supplies artificial gravity, also negates most of the inertia caused by acceleration. But it apparently wasn’t quite as good as the equipment they have in the modern interstellars.

"Alex?" It was Tarien’s voice on my link. It was also something of a surprise: participants aren’t supposed to converse with an observer.

"Yes?" I said, struggling to form the words. "What is it?"

"We aren’t going to survive this. Save yourself, if you can." He looked up at me, gave me a bail-out signal with his hand, and then turned back to his display.

That did it. "Monitor, pull me out."

Nothing.

"Monitor, where the hell are you?"

I was getting scared now.

The captain went to battle mode. I’ve found out since that ships of the period, during emergencies, could boost power temporarily. Systems drained more quickly, but for a limited time you could pour a lot of juice simultaneously into weapons, shield, and propulsion.

The planetary atmosphere in which we hoped to lose our pursuers looked hopelessly far away. We were picking up speed quickly. But on the displays, the destroyers were coming fast, and fanning out into a wedge.

I pressed my headband. It was wet with perspiration. "Monitor, get me out."

Still nothing.

A carapace closed over my observation port. Lights dimmed.

The instructions tell you that if everything else fails, you can escape from the software simply by removing the headband. You’re not supposed to do it, because it’s hard on the equipment, or the head, or something. I don’t remember. But I pulled it off.

Nothing changed.

I shut my eyes, and tried to feel the overstuffed sofa in the downstairs living room. I was prone on that goddam sofa, but the only connection I had between this world and that was the headband. Even my clothes were different. (I wore the uniform of the Dellacondans; and they’d given me two silver circlets. I was an officer.)

Our own rear batteries opened up. The ship shuddered under the discharge. What the hell was going to happen here?

What I knew: if the ship were ripped open, if I were severely injured in the scenario, or killed, my physical body would certainly go into shock. It had happened occasionally. And people had died. "Jacob! Are you there?"

"Destroyers commencing evasive maneuvering. At least, we’ll pick up some time."

On the overhead, I could see that Corsarius was still with us. Another screen sketched the paths of whatever the Kudasai had fired. Someone was reading off power projections. But most of the talk on the commlink had stopped.

The weapons tracks passed harmlessly among mute ships.

"All miss. Charged for second volley."

"Wait," said the Captain. "Hold it until they get closer. I’ll tell you when."

For a long time after that no one spoke. The only sounds came from the electronics and the life support ducts and the throbbing of power deep within the ship. The combat officer reported that the destroyers had fired, and that we had enacted countermeasures. They were using nuclear-tipped photels, which travel at lightspeed and had, fortunately, already missed.

"We’ll be into the hydrogen in about four minutes," said the Captain.

There was a second exchange of salvos, and two of the destroyers blew up. Another wobbled out of formation. Someone cheered.

"Might make it yet," said a woman’s voice on the commlink.

The Captain was frowning. Tarien was watching him curiously. "What’s wrong?" he asked after a moment.

"'Corsarius hasn’t fired yet."

"Captain," said the navigator, "check the port screen."

We all looked. It was a visual of Corsarius, and though I saw nothing unusual, everyone else seemed to. At first, there was perplexity, then anger, and finally dismay.

I looked again: and I understood. The weapons clusters were pointed at us!

The Captain hit a switch on his chair. "Corsarius," he said, "What the hell’s going on?"

No response.

"Ridiculous," said Tarien, leaning over his own link. "Chris!"

"Full power to port shield," said the Captain. "Evade. Go to autolock. Break the commlink with Corsarius. At my command, come to zero three eight, mark six."

"No!" roared Tarien. "We need to talk to him. Find out what’s happening."

"We’ll talk later," said LeMara. "For now, I don’t want a beamrider honing in on us." He turned impatiently to the officer at his right. "Helmsman, execute!"

The ship moved under me. I was flattened again.

"She’s still with us." The long bullet shape of the Corsarius remained directly outside my viewport.

"That’s got to be physically impossible." I breathed the remark into the link, expecting no response. But the voice of the Monitor was back.

You are correct, he said. It is. Ask the Ashiyyur. They will tell you that the Corsarius is not bound by physical law, and that Christopher Sim is far more than human.

Sim’s ship rotated, bringing still another line of weapons into play.

"Pulsers," said the Captain.

A distant voice commented: "Point blank range."

There was no warning flash. The bolts traveled at lightspeed, so there was only the harsh gutting of metal, sudden darkness, and the howl of escaping atmosphere.

A scream rose and cut off. A sudden blast of cold ripped through the cabin, there was no air, and something slammed into my ribs. I became intensely aware of the arm of the chair in my right hand. The ship, the cabin, the trouble I was having breathing, everything focused down to that piece of fabric-covered metal. "The bastard’s getting ready to shoot again."