The Silent War

TORCH SHIP SAMARKAMND

“Fourteen ships, sir. Confirmed,” said Harbin’s pilot. The bridge of Samarkand was crowded with the pilot, communications technician, weapons tech, the executive officer, and Harbin, seated in the command chair, all of them in bulky, awkward space suits. The navigation officer had been banished to a rearward cabin, connected to the bridge by the ship’s intercom. “A formidable fleet,” Harbin murmered.

His own force consisted of only three ships. Although he by far preferred to work alone, Harbin realized that the war had escalated far beyond the point where single ships could engage in one-on-one battles. He was now the leader of a trio of ships, a Yamagata employee, working for Humphries under a contract between HSS and Yamagata.

“They’ve detected us,” the comm tech sang out. “Radar contact.”

“Turn to one-fifteen degrees azimuth, maintain constant elevation. Increase acceleration to one-quarter g.”

“They’re following.”

“Good.”

Lasers were the weapons that spacecraft used against one another. From a distance of a thousand kilometers their intense beams of energy could slash through the unprotected skin of a spacecraft’s hull in a second or less. Defensive armor was the countermove against energy weapons: Warships now spread coatings of asteroidal rubble over their hulls. Newer ships were being built at Selene of pure diamond, manufactured by nanomachines out of carbon soot.

But there was a countermeasure against armored ships, Harbin knew, as he led Astro Corporation’s armada of fourteen ships toward the trap.

HSS intelligence had provided Harbin with a very detailed knowledge of the Astro ships, their mission plan, and—most importantly—their commander. Harbin had never met Reid Gormley, but he knew that the pint-sized Astro commander liked to go into battle with a clear preponderance of numbers.

Fourteen ships against three, Harbin thought. Clearly superior. Clearly.

“Don’t let them get away!” snapped Gormley as he leaned forward tensely in the command chair of his flagship, Antares.

“We’re matching their velocity vector, sir,” said his navigation officer.

Like their quarry, Gormley’s crews had donned their individual space suits. A ship may get punctured in battle and lose air; the suits were a necessary precaution, even though they were cumbersome. Gormley didn’t like being in a suit, and he didn’t think they were really necessary. But doctrine demanded the precaution and he followed doctrine obediently.

“I want to overtake them. Increase our velocity. Pass the word to the other ships.”

“We should send a probe ahead to see if there are other enemy vessels lying outside our radar range,” said Gormley’s executive officer, a broomstick-lean, coal-black Sudanese who had never been in battle before.

“Our radar can pick up craters on the moons of Jupiter, for god’s sake,” Gormley snapped back. “Do you see anything out there except the three we’re chasing?”

“Nosir,” the Sudanese replied uneasily, his eyes on the radar screen. “Only a few small rocks.” Gormley took a quick glance at the radar. “Pebbles,” he smirked. “Nothing to worry about.”

The Sudanese stayed silent, but he thought, Nothing to worry about unless we go sailing into them. He made a mental note to stay well clear of those pebbles, no matter where the quarry went in its effort to escape.

Wearing a one-piece miniskirted outfit with its front zipper pulled low, Victoria Ferrer had to scamper in her high-heeled softboots to keep pace with Martin Humphries as he strode briskly along the corridor between the baby’s nursery and his office.

“Send the brat to Earth,” he snapped. “I don’t want to see him again.”

Ferrer could count the number of his visits to the nursery on the fingers of one hand. She had to admit, though, that the room looked more like a hospital’s intensive care ward than an ordinary nursery. Barely more than six months old, little Van Humphries still needed a special high-pressure chamber to get enough air into his tiny lungs. The baby was scrawny, sickly, and Humphries had no patience for a weakling.

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep him here?” she asked, hurrying alongside Humphries. “We have the facilities here and we can bring in any specialists the baby needs.”

Humphries cast a cold eye on her. “You’re not fond of the runt, are you?”

“He’s only a helpless baby…”

“And you think that getting him attached to you will be a good career move? You think you’ll have better job security by mothering the runt?”

She looked genuinely shocked. “That never crossed my mind!”

“Of course not.”

Ferrer stopped dead in her tracks and planted her fists on her hips. “Mr. Humphries, sir: If you believe that I’m trying to use your son for my own gain, you’re completely wrong. I’m not that cold-blooded.”

He stopped, too, a few paces farther along the corridor, and looked her over. She seemed sincere enough, almost angry at him. Humphries laughed inwardly at the image of her, eyes flashing with righteous indignation, fists on her hips. Nice hips, he noted. She breathes sexy, too. “We’ll see how warm-blooded you are tonight,” he said. Turning, he started along the corridor again. “I want the brat sent Earthside. To my family estate in Connecticut, or what’s left of it. That’s where his brother is. I’ve got enough staff and tutors there to start a university. Set up a facility for him there, get the best medical team on Earth to take care of him. Just keep him out of my sight. I don’t want to lay eyes on him again. Ever.”

Ferrer scurried to catch up with him. “Suppose they can cure him, make him healthy. Maybe nanotherapy or—”

“If and when that happy day arrives, I’ll reconsider. Until then, keep him out of my sight. Understand?”

She nodded unhappily. “Understood.”

Feeling nettled, fuming, Humphries ducked into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. Send the runt to Connecticut. Alex is down there. My real son. My clone. He’s growing up fine and strong. I should’ve gotten rid of that miserable little brat his first day, the day his mother died. I’ve got a son; I don’t need this other little slug.

Once he got to his desk, Humphries saw that a message from Grigor was waiting for him. He slid into his desk chair and commanded the phone to call his security chief.

Grigor appeared in front of Humphries’s desk, seated at his own desk in his own office, a few meters down the hall, dark and dour as usual.

“What is it?” Humphries asked without preamble.

“The Astro flotilla that has been assembled in the Belt is pursuing our Yamagata team, as predicted.”

Humphries dipped his chin a bare centimeter. “So the computer wargame is working out, is it?”

“The simulation is being followed. Gormley is rushing into the trap.”

“Good. Call me when it’s over.” Humphries was about to cut the connection when he added. “Send me the video record as soon as it’s available.”

Grigor nodded. “I think you’ll enjoy it,” he said, mirthlessly.

“They’re veering off,” Gormley said, his eyes riveted to the navigation screen. “Follow them! Increase speed. Don’t let them get away!”

The Sudanese executive officer noted with some relief that the three fleeing enemy ships had turned away from the sprinkling of small rocks that they had been approaching. They want no more to do with that danger than I do, he said to himself.

“We’re well within range,” said the weapons officer.

“Locked on?”

Without even glancing at her console, the weapons officer said, “Five lasers are locked onto each of the enemy’s vessels, sir.”

“Get on their tails,” Gormley said. “They may be armored, but they can’t armor their thruster nozzles. Hit their thrusters and we’ve got them crippled.”

Of course, thought the Sudanese. But his attention was still on those small rocks off to their starboard. Strange to see such small objects without a larger asteroid that gave birth to them. They’re like a reef in the ocean, a danger lurking, waiting to smash unsuspecting ships. Then he thought, For a man who was brought up far from the sea, you’ve become quite a mariner.

Harbin heard the alarm in the voice of his pilot. “They’re firing at us! Firing at all three of us.”

“They can’t do much damage at this range,” he said calmly.

“If they hit our thrusters…” The pilot turned in his chair and saw the set of Harbin’s jaw. “Sir,” he added lamely.

“All ships,” Harbin commanded, “increase elevation three degrees, now.”

To his exec he said, “Activate the rocks.”

“They’re maneuvering!” sang out the weapons officer.

Gormley saw it on the nav screen. “Keep locked onto them. Don’t let them get away!”

Even the Sudanese had turned his attention away from the small rocks that were now fairly far off to their starboard to concentrate on the battle action. The enemy ships were maneuvering in unison, which was foolish. Far better, when being chased, to maneuver independently and set up a more difficult targeting problem for the attackers.

The collision-avoidance radar began to bong loudly.

“What in blazes is that?” Gormley shouted.

The navigation screen automatically switched to show several dozen meter-sized rocks hurtling toward Gormley’s ships. The Sudanese could see glowing plumes of exhaust plasma thrusting the rocks toward them.

How simple! he realized. Set up small rocks with plasma thrusters and guidance chips, lure your enemy toward them, and then fire the rocks into your enemy’s ships. How simple. And how deadly.

The rocks were moving at high velocity when they smashed into the Astro Corporation ships. They tore the ships apart, like high-speed bullets fired through tin cans. One of them blasted through the bridge of Antares, ripped through the helmeted head of the ship’s pilot and plowed out the other side of the bridge while the woman’s decapitated body showered blood everywhere. Screams and cries of horror filled the Sudanese’s helmet earphones. Cursing wildly, he cut off the suit radio as his chair ripped free of its mounting on the ship’s deck and crashed through the gaping hole in the bridge where the rock had gone through. He felt his left arm snap, and a dizzying wave of excruciating pain shot down his spine. Then he felt and heard nothing.

He was spinning slowly, slowly through empty space, still strapped into his broken chair. He could feel nothing below his neck. He could hardly breathe. Through tear-filled eyes he saw the shattered remnants of Gormley’s fleet, broken and smashed pieces of spacecraft, bodies floating in their space suits, a proud armada reduced in a few seconds to a slowly spreading patch of debris. Flotsam, he thought idly. We are going to die in this empty wilderness.

“My god,” whispered someone on the bridge of Samarkand.

Harbin also stared at the destruction. The Astro fleet looked as if it had gone through a shredder. A meatgrinder. Bodies and wreckage were strewn everywhere, spinning, tumbling, coasting through space.

“Should we pick up the survivors?” his pilot asked, in a hushed voice.

Harbin shook his head. “There are no survivors.”

“But maybe some—”

“There are no survivors,” he repeated harshly. But his eyes lingered on the display screen. A few hundred new asteroids have been added to the Belt, he told himself. Some of them were once human beings.