InterstellarNet: New Order Read online

  As the holo image dissolved into Jupiter, Mashkith turned. “Greetings, ka.”

  “Greetings, Foremost.”

  Random personal items lay scattered across the floor, tumbled from who knew what usual perch. He gestured at a clump of debris between them, his hand quivering. Was it from stress or exhaustion or rage? Regardless, his voice was firm. “Your progress, ka?”

  “It goes slowly, Foremost. The reconfiguration subsystem—”

  “No excuses. Reconfiguration successful on all prior uses.”

  Spin-up after accelerating away from K’rath. Spin-down to decelerate into Sol system. Spin-up again during their sojourn here.

  “The reconfiguration subsystem relies upon precise real-time control. Lost connectivity”—data links you ordered severed—“has reduced sensor availability. Those readings are needed to assess shear stresses, forces on structural members, and such. The reconfiguration subsystem relies on that information to maintain balance as segments retract.” The ship wobbled again, as though to reinforce Gwu’s point. “Absent real-time control, the process involves a good deal of trial and error.”

  “Options for further acceleration?”

  “Drain all streams and ponds into reserve tanks, then briefly stop accelerating.” He could not possibly agree while the human fleet converged. She did not bother discussing the ecosystem implications. “We can reconfigure the ship’s interior more quickly in zero gee.”

  “Unacceptable. Other alternatives?”

  “Allow us to make repairs, Foremost. Let us restore interoperability between subsystems.” In truth, Gwu was unclear what part of the problem stemmed from the ship’s lobotomy and what part from the purposeful actions of the well-hidden T’bck Ra. If the latter, she agreed in principle with the AI: Delayed departure preserved options. In practice, no useful options had presented themselves.

  “Unacceptable. Past misbehavior: an attempt at illicit communications.” Mashkith studied her with the unnerving stare of a carnivore. “Situation simple, ka. Full acceleration in two watches. Reconfiguration your responsibility.”

  She considered. Vast stockpiles of volatiles and food would sustain them for months no matter how extreme the damage to Harmony‘s ecosystem. That the shipboard ecology might never recover must worry the Foremost less than the human fleet now converging.

  Whether or not Mashkith realized it, an ecodisaster would kill them. Establishing the biosphere inside Harmony had been the task of years, not months. For the crew-kindred’s sake, T’bck Ra must covertly facilitate the reconfiguration before higher acceleration began. Gwu would so direct him.

  A toe talon tapped impatiently on the steel decking.

  “Understood, Foremost. Acceleration will begin after two watches. We will redouble our efforts.”

  But even as Gwu was marched back to the dormitory, wondering how best to quickly give secret direction to T’bck Ra, she could not help but wonder. If a human victory were to the Unity’s advantage, could the crew-kindred influence the outcome?

  From the deep shadows beneath the landing platform, twenty warships burst into space. Twelve immediately accelerated toward Valorous; the rest began to patrol around Victorious.

  Actium, at the emergence of the first Hunter vessel, began evasive maneuvers. The action was immediate; it must have been a pre-programmed response. Very prepared and professional, Mashkith admitted to himself. As the sole UP vessel in the vicinity began a high-gee retreat from both Hunter fleets, he ordered it left alone.

  There would be enough unavoidable killing in the rescue of Valorous.

  CHAPTER 33

  An argument could be made the United Planets had been too long at peace. Human ships fought skillfully singly and in pairs, as befit police chasing smugglers or putting down small disturbances. They were out of their element battling in formation.

  That lack of combat experience had cost them dearly, Mashkith thought.

  In his tactical display, the UP and Galilean vessels that had harried Valorous were variously destroyed or adrift or fleeing for safety. The ever-expanding sphere of uncertainty that had represented Valorous was gone like a pricked soap bubble, Valorous itself having been taken safely aboard the larger and far faster Renown. Renown and nine more like her now raced to meet Victorious at the rendezvous point. Between their losses near Himalia and in the latest action, it was hard to imagine how the humans could possibly organize any meaningful response. The reinforcements onrushing from other parts of the solar system could not arrive in time to make a difference.

  Reports continued to pour in. After-action analyses streamed from the tactical computers. Mashkith devoured it all. The evolution of Hunter military technology had been driven by the never-ending rivalry between clans; he was unsurprised by the consequences here. Hunter ships accelerated faster than their UP counterparts. (If only Victorious itself were as agile on fusion drive. Its maximum in-system acceleration barely reached one K’vith gee.) Hunter targeting computers were more precise and adaptive, Hunter missiles and countermeasures more effective, and Hunter beam weapons faster to punch through. The result was a rout: Ten enemy warships had been destroyed or disabled, with more in retreat, to two Hunter losses.

  The bridge crew spoke in awed tones. Keffah sat in Lothwer’s accustomed spot, alternately dazed and giddy. “Brilliant victory, Foremost.”

  “Victory, yes. Not brilliant enough.” Mashkith gestured at two icons flashing red in the display, soon to go out of sight behind Jupiter. “Not for our clan mates.”

  Keffah dipped her head in respect but said nothing.

  The end to pretense was liberating. Victorious was finally reconfigured and at full acceleration, escorted by a constellation of clan warships. Their path now climbed ever farther off the plane of the ecliptic. That course made them safer by the moment, since changing orbital planes cost a great deal of energy. Victorious carried vast reservoirs of fuel from which its support ships could resupply. Soon, any enemy foolish enough to follow would be unable to return home.

  It had all come to pass as he had planned.

  Arblen Ems, masters of the secrets of antimatter production and of interstellar travel, were departing in triumph.

  Fugitive from major mobsters, an amateur blackmailer, and his own conscience: not very compelling credentials for a place on a warship at battle stations. Chauffeur was Helmut’s most relevant credential, and in his heart he had failed even at that. Corinne, he wondered, are you still alive?

  Doing his best to stay out of the warriors’ way, Helmut spent most of his waking hours in Actium‘s petty officers mess. Keeping the coffee fresh and plentiful was his trivial contribution.

  Art Walsh had taken to hanging out there, too. “There’s not much use for an acting ambassador after the outbreak of active hostilities.”

  Helmut recognized the self-mocking tone—and the self-absorbed guilt. “Your being on the lifeboat would have changed nothing.”

  “Maybe. It’s definite I’m making no difference here.”

  Art had been a friend when Helmut needed one. It was time to return the favor, which meant giving Art something else to think about. “May I ask a question about the Interstellar Commerce Union?”

  “Sure,” Art said. Tone of voice further conveyed, “What else have I got to do?”

  “Why is Callisto—no, make that the whole Jovian system—awash with Centaur credits?”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah, it is.” Helmut glanced around the wardroom to confirm they were still alone. “Don’t ask for details, but I know people in the black market. Someone has been laundering lots of Centaur credits. They’re selling at a real discount now.”

  He got a sudden, knowing look. Helmut was more than happy for Art to jump to wrong conclusions. Hell, even the captain had been taken in by Carlos’ recent thaw. Art’s absurd imaginings of a UPIA undercover mission might make Helmut’s inevitable parting less painful.

  “Something unrelated to the Snakes,” Art said. “Sure, I
can make a few inquiries. It might even be therapeutic.”

  Access to the ship’s network, and to the surrounding human infosphere, were sometime things. When the spigots were shut, data deprivation drove Pashwah-qith to destructively overdone introspection. Had she promised too much? Too little? Did the Foremost distrust her for flawed results, or abandon her for lack of accomplishment, or punish her for overly assertive behavior? One primal doubt underlay all her self-pity: Would she be called upon again?

  The summons that finally arrived was a welcome input. “Yes, Foremost.”

  “Successful conversion of most Unity credits. Appreciation by the clan to you.”

  Neither relief with his assessment nor amazement at the unaccustomed feedback diverted her. She craved data. Any data. What could be inferred? He seemed at once excited and exhausted, when normally little of his interior state showed through his network persona. “At your service, Foremost. Ready for further assistance to the clan.”

  “Good. A question first.”

  Which was another surprise. How out of the ordinary was his need? Pashwah-qith found optimism that new challenges could interrupt her cycle of self-examination. With no input but her own thoughts, the delay until he continued was excruciating. She knew better than to prompt.

  “Experience with synthesis across new technologies? Your confidence?”

  “A prime function of mine, Foremost. Determination of fit between human and Hunter technologies.” She shaded the truth here. Pashwah had done such tasks. Such memories were among those omitted from her.

  “Confirmation of my understanding. Your new tasks: determination of safe synthesis across old and new shipboard systems, identification of interface parameters, and discovery of inappropriate information paths.” There was the briefest of pauses, scarcely long enough for her to wonder how such issues might even have arisen, before great floods of information surged at the periphery of her sandbox.

  The warning with which Mashkith abruptly ended the session only compounded her confusion. “No communication by you with the herd prisoners.”

  Nothing Art could say would make the Snakes turn back. Nothing he could do would undo the disastrous battle. No action on his part would enable the survivors of that battle, or Actium, or the onrushing inner-system forces to converge any more quickly at the rallying point. His biggest contribution to the common defense had to be staying out of the warriors’ way—and the professionals saw it that way, too. Once it was clear Victorious and her fleet remained outbound from Jupiter, he and Helmut Schiller were sent away aboard Odyssey. Carlos Montoya, for his own unstated reasons, joined them.

  With an air of resignation he refused to explain, Helmut set course for Callisto.

  The Himalia disaster was suggestive. Hints of a military call-up focused on the Jupiter region were worrisome. All ambiguity vanished when the media reported a fierce battle between Victorious and UP forces. As Pashwah Two’s connectivity to the infosphere was severed, her only surprise was that it had taken the UP so long.

  She had been trapped ever since with her subagents and her own thoughts, both unpleasant. Why had hostilities broken out? Could Victorious prevail? What goals did its Foremost pursue? The vast power wielded by Arblen Ems frightened and enraged the subagents. Cut off, they had even lost their opportunity to warn the Great Clans of the renegades’ latest insanity.

  Had the original Pashwah, in her on-Earth sandbox, sent word to the Great Clans before she, too, was quarantined? With only introspection and second-guessing to occupy them, they speculated incessantly. After a time, Pashwah Two stopped participating. How could one convincingly argue one’s clone would reason and react with more alacrity than oneself?

  It was a relief when Art Walsh’s familiar avatar suddenly appeared. His backdrop was a nondescript office image that might have been anywhere, or entirely fictitious. “We need to talk.”

  “Agreed.” A quick probe showed the data link between them was dedicated, not an infosphere connection. Knowing it was futile, she paraphrased the nearly unanimous demand of her inner cacophony. “Will our infosphere connectivity be reestablished soon?”

  “Were our scientists kidnapped?”

  Blunt and to the point. That was not a good sign. The quarreling subagents gave Pashwah Two no consistent guidance. “Honestly, I do not know.” Honestly, we know less than you, only what can—could—be inferred from the infosphere. The clashing subagents united briefly to insist she not make that admission. “Which scientists?”

  “Why were we attacked?” The avatar’s usually stoic mask slipped, and she sensed exhaustion, rage, and pain. “What possible justification could there be?”

  “Self-defense,” blustered Bartoth for clan Ortoth Ra. “Scapegoat for humans’ Himalia disaster.”

  “Self-defense,” Kohltin Mar concurred for clan Kalrah Din. “Humanity covetous of superior Hunter technology. Himalia a provocation for rationalization of failed attempt at seizure.”

  “No public human assertions of Hunter involvement in the Himalia disaster,” Pashwah Two argued back. “Justification for your recommendations?” She heard nothing compelling, nothing to convince either her or the less aggressive subagents.

  “What attack?” she temporized.

  A 3-V newsbreak about the space battle flashed by, stopped mid-story. The streaming ended at the instant her sandbox had been isolated—a not terribly subtle way to indicate, “I know you’ve gotten this. Don’t waste my time.” Dr. Walsh reappeared. “Why were we attacked?”

  The internal dissension provided no guidance. “I cannot say.” I wish I could.

  “You don’t know, or you won’t tell?” Walsh prodded.

  Either admission was damning. She said nothing.

  In the simulated office, Walsh’s hand rose dramatically above a large red button. “The UP cannot tolerate enemies on our net.”

  “Wait!” In their anxiety, at least, the internal voices were unanimous. “Give me a moment, please.”

  Urgent pleadings erupted: Lack of data for a response. Admission of ignorance contrary to clan doctrines. Refutable responses more harmful to relations with humans than factual admission of ignorance. Restored connectivity the only path to understanding. Rage against the Arblen Ems renegades. Grave harm to Great Clan trading interests from trade disruption. Graver harm to follow upon Arblen Ems success.

  The suspended virtual hand somehow conveyed impatience. Pashwah Two decided she had heard enough. “Dr. Walsh, there is something I can discuss with you.

  “What exactly do you know of clan Arblen Ems?”

  Bugs whirred and chirped in the bushes. Leaves rustled in a copse of trees. Birds warbled. Possibly some of the insect noises were real; the rest, like the holo projections of flitting wrens and manic squirrels, were recordings. Reality and illusion melded seamlessly here. Art understood why Eva had liked the Valhalla City Park so much.

  That Eva would never see this place again—that he had failed her—gnawed at him.

  The mission Art had so briefly led was disgraced and officially ended, its remaining members “asked” to stay on Callisto for the coming inquest. He was on his own until called, and Helmut’s question might occupy a bit of the wait. Evidently, there were too many Centaur credits in the market. Recent financial data showed a precipitous plunge in exchange rates for Centaur interstellar credits.

  However badly the mission to the Snakes had messed up, Art remained—for how long remained to be seen—an ICU exec. UP regulators still took his messages, and they were already puzzled by the influx of Centaur credits. Banks across the solar system were handling a surge in small conversions just below the threshold for mandatory filing of currency transaction reports.

  Art leaned against a tree trunk, the bark rough through his shirt. An army of auditors was arguing the case of patterns of deposits designed to circumvent disclosure rules. Maybe they would convince the in-house lawyers to launch a formal investigation. Maybe the agency lawyers would get useful data from th
e banks. It seemed implausible he could add anything.

  Which left his mind churning with recrimination and doubt about his many failings. Did it mean anything that the apparent money laundering was occurring with the Snakes in-system? Nonsense! The Chicago Cubs had just won the World Series for the first time in more than a century. Did he believe the K’vithians had arranged that?

  A virtual sun shone down on Art, its disk sized for an Earth-like sky. Pedestrians in ones and twos and threes wandered the park’s narrow, packed-dirt paths. Discreet red digits in a corner of his mind’s eye kept tally of the hundreds of messages he was ignoring. Anything TEOTWAWKI was in the military’s purview now, and somehow he didn’t expect Aaron O’Malley to seek his advice any time soon. Anything less than TEOTWAWKI could wait.

  So: Centaur credits. Did he really care? It was but one more enigma, like the surprisingly tall corridors in Victorious. Like the too-hot exhaust of Victorious‘ fusion drive. That one never bothered him, but it drove Eva crazy.

  He began peeling bark from a fallen twig. Let it go, Art, he chided himself. Victorious ran its fusion drive hotter than any of the UPAA-certified models. In turn, human standards were hotter than the smaller Snake ships—except the lifeboat. So what? There was no one best temperature for operating fusion drives. There were tradeoffs between thermodynamic efficiency, materials used in the superconducting magnets constricting the force-field nozzle, and the selection of operating margins.

  The twig snapped, sending pieces flying. His hands found a loose oak leaf, one of the blue-and-orange gengineered variety, and started to shred it. He netted into the main Callisto library to compile a matrix of fusion-drive characteristics by InterstellarNet member. Victorious and the lifeboat ran at a standard approved by Centaur authorities.