Eric Flint's Blog, page 308

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 02

Paradigms Lost – Chapter 02

Chapter 2: Picture Imperfect

I got back to Wood’s Information Service at 2:45. The cops were gone but one of those wide yellow tapes was around the entire area. Damn.

I went to the pay phone on the corner (lucky there still are any… pretty soon I’ll have to get a cell phone myself), dialed the station, asked for Lieutenant Reisman. I was in luck. She was still in. “Reisman here. What is it, Jason?”

“You know, I happen to live in my place of business. Do you have to block off the entire building?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Hold on a minute.”

It was actually five minutes. “Okay, here’s the deal. You can go in, but only use the front entrance and stay out of that back hallway.”

“But I store a lot of stuff there.”

“Sorry, that’s the breaks. Tell your informants to die elsewhere from now on. Anything else?”

“Yeah. This thing has Sylvie really spooked. She’s really nervous about this, and being in the business she is, it gives her weird ideas.”

“So what can I do?”

“Just give me a call when the ME report comes through. If there’s nothing really odd on it, it’ll make things much easier.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Look, Jason, medical examiner reports aren’t supposed to be public knowledge, first off. But second, just what do you mean by ‘odd’?”

I grinned, though she couldn’t tell. “Believe me, Lieutenant, you’ll know if you see it.”

“Huh.” She knew I was being deliberately evasive, but she knew I probably had a reason. She’d push later if events warranted. “All right, Jason, here’s what I’ll do. If the ME’s report is what I consider normal, which includes normal assaults, heart attacks, and so on, I’ll call you and tell you just that, ‘normal.’ If I see something I consider odd, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks, Renee. I owe you one.”

“You got that straight. Good night.”

I went back to my building and up to my bedroom. I was drifting off to sleep when I suddenly sat bolt upright, wide awake.

The figure I had seen in the alley, backlighted by a streetlamp. I had thought it just moved away too fast to follow in the fog. But the Tamara’s Tanning neon sign had been on its left, and the lit sign for WKIL radio on its right. One or the other should have flickered as it passed across them.

Both had stayed shining steadily. But that was impossible.

It was a long time before I finally got to sleep.

I got up at twelve-thirty; that yellow tape would keep away the customers who might drop by, and as a consultant I keep irregular hours anyway. I was just sitting down with my ham sandwich breakfast when the phone rang. “Wood’s Information Service, Jason Wood speaking.”

“This is Lieutenant Reisman, Wood. I’ve just read the ME report.”

“And?”

“And I would like to know what your girlfriend thinks is going on here, Mr. Wood.”

“Syl’s not my girlfriend.” Not exactly, anyway, I thought. “What did the ME find?”

“It’s what he didn’t find that’s the problem.” Renee’s voice was tinged with uncertainty. “Your friend Lewis wasn’t in great shape — cirrhosis, bronchitis, and so on, and various minor malnutrition things — but none of those killed him. He’d also suffered several bruises, someone grabbed him with great force, and after death the body was thrown into your door. But death was not due to violence of the standard sort.”

“Well, what did kill him then?”

“The ME can’t yet say how it happened,” the Lieutenant said quietly, “but the cause of death was blood loss.” She took a breath and finished. “There wasn’t a drop of blood left in his body.”

I made a mental note that I owed Syl a big apology. “Not a drop, huh?”

“Well, technically speaking, that’s not true. The ME told me that it’s physically impossible to get all the blood out of a corpse. But it was as bloodless as if someone had slit his throat with a razor and then hung him up to drain. The thing that’s really bothering the ME is that the man had no wounds that account for the blood loss. He’ll have the detailed autopsy done in a few days, but from what he said I doubt he’s going to find anything.”

“You’re probably right. Well, thanks, Renee.”

“Hold on just one minute, mister! You at least owe me an explanation.”

“Do you really want one?”

She was silent for a minute. Then, “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Because there’s one other thing that I haven’t told you yet.”

I waited.

After a few moments, she said, “All right, here it is. This body is not the first we’ve found in this condition. The others all had wounds that could explain the loss… but the ME told me privately that there were certain indications that made him think that they were inflicted after death.”

“Okay, Lieutenant, but you are not going to like it.”

“I don’t like it now, Wood. Let me have it.”

“Sylvie thinks we are dealing with a vampire.”

There was a long silence. “Would you repeat that?”

“A vampire. As in Dracula.”

Another silence. “Yeah. And damned if I don’t half believe it, either. I must be getting gullible. But no way can I take this to my supervisor. He’s the most closed-minded son of a bitch who ever wore blue.”

I laughed. “I don’t expect you to do anything about it. Just keep an eye out. I’m going to start some research of my own. If we are dealing with something…” I trailed off, paused, then force myself to say it, “… paranormal, I doubt that normal approaches will work.”

“God, listen to us. Vampires? I’ll call you later, Jason. This is too weird for me to handle right now.”

I cradled the receiver. I couldn’t blame her for needing time to sort it all out. Hell, I was stunned that she accepted it as much as she did. Somewhere in the back of her mind she must already have decided that something was very wrong about those other deaths.

All right. Let’s get to work, Jason.

I went upstairs into my library, started pulling down books — folklore references I’d collected over the years, mostly, including Vampires: A World Survey, which was the closest thing to a scholarly compendium on the subject I’d ever found. Most of these things came from my information addiction overlapping with my fiction reading; I couldn’t resist trying to fact-check even my horror novels. Bad facts didn’t stop me from reading them, of course, but I liked to know what was real and was wasn’t.

I sat down at my workstation, started keying in information from each book. The World Survey emphasized what I’d already known: the vampire myth existed in some form in almost every corner of the world — from South America to Japan, from China to Europe. The abilities and weaknesses of the creatures, of course, varied wildly, from the original shambling zombie-like corpses of Eastern Europe to China and Japan’s strange “hopping vampires” to…

I glanced back up at the shelves and wondered if I should include anything from the fictional side. Yes, at first glance that sounded stupid, but if I was going to assume there were such things as…  vampires,  there was the possibility that one or more books had been written by people who knew they existed and something of what they were like.

And… again if I was right… they’d already apparently shown two of the characteristics often attributed to fictional vampires: superhuman strength and the ability to disappear or turn into mist.

I sighed, got back up, and picked out a selection of vampire novels – the original Dracula, Yarbro’s Saint Germain books, Rice’s Lestat, a few others that covered a range of tastes. I’ll extract the key points as possibilities and put them in with a low but significant weight.

After three hours, my neck and arms started getting really cramped. I broke for a late lunch or maybe dinner, headed back towards the computer just as the phone rang.

“Wood’s Information Ser—”

“Hello, Wood.”

I knew that gravel-scraping voice, even though it usually didn’t call before the night shift. Then I looked at the clock and realized it was the night shift by now. That’s what you get for sleeping until after noon. “Hi, Elias. I’ve got your photos done.”

“Anything good?”

“Let’s just say that I’ll be real surprised if we aren’t electing a new Assemblyman soon.”

He laughed, a quick explosive chortle. “With an attitude like that, I don’t see you getting on jury duty, that’s for sure. Listen, I’ll be over to pick ‘em up soon. ‘Bout an hour and a half good?”

“Sure thing, Elias.”

I needed a little break from bloodsucking freaks anyway. I pulled the envelope from the safe, rechecking the pictures on disk against the negatives. By the time my recheck was done, Elias was there. “Hey there, Jase,” he said, ducking slightly as he entered. He really didn’t have to—the doorway’s seven feet high and he’s six foot six—but it was a habit he had. Add a gangly frame, a sharp-edged nose, black hair, black eyes, and a slight stoop; Elias Klein always reminded me of a youthful buzzard. He came into my office to get a quick look. He liked them all, until we got to the last one.

“Nice joke, Jason.”

“What do you mean, joke? It looks pretty good to me.”

“Oh, sure, Assemblyman Connors looks just lovely. But without Verne Domingo to complete the picture it’s nothing but a publicity shot.”

I pointed to the next to last. “What about that one? They’re swapping right there, what more could you ask for?”

“That’s just a second-string doper, Jason! Domingo’s the big man, the guy we’ve been after for the whole time I’ve been on this case, and that is the photo that should show him.”

I shrugged. “Too bad. Next time make sure he’s in the picture.”

“Don’t give me that, Wood! I know he was in that shot, I was the one looking through the viewfinder.”

I handed him the negative. “Look for yourself.”

He stared at it. “What the hell?” Then he swung towards me. “Wood, you’d better not be dicking around with the evidence! I’ve been on this for eight damn months, and if you’re –”

“Oh, cut the tough cop act, Elias. You know damn well that I only play jokes, I don’t really mess with my clients’ stuff. If I did, would the city PD be paying me ten grand a year? That negative is the one you gave me and it’s in the same shape as it was when it got here.”

“But that’s impossible.” Elias glared at the negative as though a hard stare would make the missing figure materialize. “If you look through the viewfinder of an SLR, what you see is what you get. Besides, dammit, look at your own enhancement. He’s got his mouth half open, saying something, and he’s about to shake hands. Then look at that angle. Do you put your hand out twenty feet from the guy you’re going to shake with?”

“Nope.” I was mystified now. Then a quote spun across my mind: “This time there could be no error, for the man was close to me, and I could see him over my shoulder. But there was no reflection of him in my mirror!”

I took the negative and stared at it again. “You’re right, Elias. Mr. Domingo should have been in this picture. That leaves only one explanation.”

He looked at me. “And that is… ?”

“That you are dealing with someone whose image doesn’t appear on film.”

Elias didn’t like that at all, but he had to admit that I had no motive to screw around with the negatives. “So what’re you saying? He’s got some kind of Star Trek cloaking device that wipes his image off film? I won’t swallow it.”

“Trust me, Elias, you don’t want to know what I think. Since this negative is worthless as is, mind if I keep it? Maybe there’s some kind of latent image I could bring up.”

“Dammit, Jason! Tell me what is –” He broke off, having caught sight of the pile of books and papers on the desk.

He looked at them. He picked them up, examined them. Looked at me. “And Reisman said …” he began, then stopped. He glanced at the negative again. Back at me. A long pause. “You’re right.” he said finally. “I don’t want to know. Keep the negative.” He grabbed his hat and sunglasses, left quickly.

I went back to typing.

The phone rang again.

“Hello, Jason,” said Sylvie. “What have you heard?”

“Enough. I apologize for doubting you, Sylvie. We’ve either got ourselves a real honest-to-God vampire here, or someone who is doing his level best to fake it. And with the technical problems of faking some of this, I’d rather believe in a vampire than in a faker.” I glanced down. “And I think I’ve found our bloodsucker, too.” I gave her a quick rundown on Klein’s negative.

“But, Jason, isn’t that an incredible coincidence?”

“I thought so myself, at first. But I’ve been thinking, and it isn’t as far out as it first seems. In most legit businesses you have to do business in daylight hours at some point. Maybe a vampire can live in a musty coffin underground all the time, but I’ll bet they sure don’t want to. They want all the creature comforts they can enjoy and that means money. So they’ll just naturally gravitate to the ‘shady’ side of commerce, pardon the pun. And with their natural advantages, it isn’t surprising at all that one might be high up on the ladder.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way. But drug deals happen in the day, too.”

“But if you’ve got muscle to back you up you can get away with a lot of odd quirks. Avoiding sunlight might be possible.” I nodded to myself. “And Lewis acted as an informant to me; might have done so to the police, or — more likely — he’d tell me and expect I’d get it to them. So if Lewis had seen something and come to tell me…”

“Oh, the poor man,” Syl said softly. “But you’re right, it does make sense. And, by the way, apology accepted. I’ve been calling around and getting my better occult acquaintances on the alert. They’ll see what they can find.”

“Good.” Privately, I didn’t expect much from Sylvie’s pals. Sylvie herself might have something, but most of the people who visited the Silver Stake were your typical muddled New-Age escapists who confused Tolkien and Star Wars with real life. “I’m working on something here that might help. Stop by after you’re done, okay?”

“Sure thing, Jason. Just promise me no more bodies, huh?”

“I make no guarantees. Bodies never consult me before arriving. See you.”

“Bye.”

It was ten o’clock by the time I finished. Then I put WISDOM to work. Wood’s Information Service Database Online Manager can analyze information using many different statistical methods and a lot of other heuristics. WISDOM was instructed to examine the information on all different kinds of vampires to construct the most likely abilities that an actual vampire might be expected to possess. It took WISDOM only a few minutes to do its calculations. I sat down and read. It was grim reading.

 

Paradigms Lost – Foreword & Chapter 01

Paradigms Lost – Foreword & Chapter 01

Paradigms Lost

Rewrite and Expansion of

Digital Knight (2003)

By

Ryk E. Spoor

Foreword

Paradigms Lost is a greatly expanded edition of Digital Knight, my first published work. It is not just a polishing and slight reworking of Digital Knight — indeed, in many areas I have tried not to touch the writing overmuch, as I don’t want to damage the “flavor” that made it work in the first place.

What I have done is to add in incidents and actions which would have happened — foreshadowing and “crossover” events that are part of Jason’s universe — but which I didn’t fully know when I first wrote Digital Knight, some portions of which were written as far back as 1987-88. I have also reconciled a few contradictions and confusing incidents to make more sense. I’ve also clarified the dating of the stories, as some readers might have found it confusing; Jason’s adventures begin in April of 1999.

In addition to these additions — some of which are quite substantial — I have added in two more of Jason’s adventures, “Shadow of Fear” and “Trial Run”, to make this a truly worthwhile read even for those of you who may have read the original. Overall, this means that more than a short novel worth of material has been added to Paradigms Lost; the original Digital Knight was about 112,000 words, while Paradigms Lost runs to well over 160,000.

Jason’s world is very like ours… but not precisely, and it changes as time goes on for him. His adventures also connect — sometimes in surprising ways — with other stories and events in his universe. Those who have read Phoenix Rising will perhaps not be surprised to see his encounters with a certain young man, and possibly make other connections with things that have happened… or will happen.

Join Jason, then… on the day that everything changed.

Part 1: Gone in a Flash

April, 1999:

Chapter 1: Dead Man Knocking

I clicked on the JAPES icon. A second picture appeared on the Lumiere RAN-7X workstation screen next to the digitized original, said original being a pretty blurry picture of two men exchanging something. At first the two pictures looked identical, as always, but then rippling changes started: colors brightening and darkening, objects becoming so sharp as to look almost animated, a dozen things at once. I controlled the process with a mouse, pointing and clicking to denote key items that would help JAPES to interpret the meaning in the image and bring out details.

Fortunately, I had a lot of pictures of the same area — and same individuals — from the same batch of photos Lieutenant Klein had given me, which provided me with a lot of material for enhancing and interpreting what was in this photo. JAPES, which stood for Jason’s Automatic Photo Enhancing System, was the whimsical name I’d given to my own specialized image analysis and processing suite which combined multiple standard (and not so standard) photographic enhancement techniques into a single complex operation controlled partly by me and partly by a learning expert system.

I stiffened; suddenly I was overwhelmed by the sense that I was being watched. Some people say they get that feeling a lot when they’re alone; since I live alone, and work in the same building I live in, I’ve never been prone to that problem. But this time the feeling was so strong that I turned suddenly to the plate-glass window that was the front of Wood’s Information Service.

For just an instant — that split-second between turning and my eyes focusing — I thought I saw something: a very tall figure in the mists of evening, dressed in what seemed — in that vague glimpse — to be robes or a longcoat of some sort, with a peculiar wide-swept hat like nothing I’d ever seen. Long white hair trailed off below the hat, and the figure was leaning on or holding some kind of a staff.

But when I focused, I could see there was nothing there at all; just mist and the cotton-fog glow of a streetlamp beyond. I stared out for several minutes, then shrugged. What the hell, brain? I thought to myself. Not even seeing things that make sense.

The delay had, at least, allowed JAPES to complete its work. The computer-enhanced version was crisp as a posed photo; except that I don’t think either the Assemblyman or the coke dealer had intended a pose. Yeah, that ought to give Elias Klein another nail to put in the crooks’ coffins. I glanced at my watch: eight-twenty. Time enough to digitize and enhance one more photo before Sylvie came over. I decided to do the last of Lieutenant Klein’s; drug cases make me nervous, you never know what might happen. Come to think of it, I realized, that’s probably why I had that weird feeling; I’m twitchy over this one.

So let’s get back to it. I inserted the negative into the enlarger/digitizer, popped into the kitchen for a cream soda, sat down and picked up my book. After seventeen minutes the computer pinged; for this kind of work, I have to scan at the best possible resolution, and that takes time. I checked to make sure the scan went okay, then coded in the parameters, set JAPES going, and went back to Phantoms. Great yarn.

After the automatic functions were done, I started in on what I really get paid for here at Wood’s Information Service (“Need info? Knock on Wood!”): the ability to find the best “finishing touches” that make enhancement still an art rather than a science.

A distant scraping sound came from the back door, and then a faint clank. I checked the time again; nine-twenty-five, still too early; Sylvie’s occult shop, the Silver Stake, always closed at precisely nine-thirty, and besides, Syl would just ring the bell or walk in from the front. “Lewis?” I called out.

Lewis was what social workers might call a displaced person, others called a bum, and I called a contact. Lewis sometimes did scutwork for me—as long as he was sober he was a good worker. Unfortunately when he was drunk he was a belligerent nuisance, and at six foot seven a belligerent Lewis was an ugly sight. Since it was the first Friday of the month, he was probably drunk.

But I didn’t hear an answer, neither voice nor the funny ringing knock that the chains on his jacket cuffs made. Instead I heard another clank and then a muffled thud. At that point the computer pinged again, having just finished my last instructions. I checked the final version — it looked pretty good, another pose of the Assemblyman alone with his hand partly extended — then downloaded all the data onto two disks for the Lieutenant. I sealed them in an envelope with the original negatives, dropped the envelope into the safe, swung it shut, pulled the wall panel down and locked it. Then I stepped out and turned towards the backdoor, grabbing my book as I left. Just then the front doorbell rang.

It was Sylvie, of course. “Hi, Jason!” she said, bouncing through the door. “Look at these, we just got the shipment in today! Aren’t they great?” She dangled some crystal and silver earrings in front of me, continuing, “They’re genuine Brazil crystal and the settings were handmade; the lady who makes them says she gets her directions from an Aztec she channels –”

There was a tremendous bang from the rear and the windows shivered. “What the hell was that?” Sylvie demanded. “Sounded like a cannon!”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “But it wasn’t a gun. Something hit the building.” I thought of the photos I was enhancing. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had decided to erase the evidence before I finished improving it. I yanked open the right hand drawer of the front desk, pulled out my .45, snicked the safety off.

“You’re that worried, Jason?”

“Could be bad, Syl; working for cops has its drawbacks.”

She nodded, her face serious now. To other people she comes across as a New Age bimbo, or a gypsy with long black hair and colored handkerchief clothes. I know better. She reached into her purse, yanked out a small .32 automatic, pulled the slide once. I heard a round chamber itself. “Ready.”

One of the things I always liked about Syl; she wasn’t afraid of much and ready to deal with anything.

She started towards the back. “Let’s go.”

I cut in front of her. “You cover me.”

I approached the door carefully, swinging to the hinge side. It opened inward, which could be trouble if someone slammed it open; I took a piece of pipe that I keep around and put it on the floor in the path of the door, so it would act as an impromptu doorstop. Then I yanked the bolt and turned the handle.

I felt a slight pressure, but not anything like something trying to force the door. Sylvie had lined up opposite me. She glanced at me and I nodded. I let the door start to open, then let go and stood aside.

The metal fire door swung open and Lewis flopped down in front of us. Sylvie gasped and I grunted. Drunk like I thought. I reached out for him. That’s when he finished his roll onto his back.

His eyes stared up, glassy and unseeing. There was no doubt in my mind that he was very dead.

I stepped over the body, to stand just inside the doorway, and peered up and down the alley. To the right I saw nothing but rolling fog — God must be playing director with mood machines tonight — but to the left there was a tall, angular figure, silhouetted by a streetlamp. Pressing myself up against the doorframe in case bullets answered me, I called out, “Hey! You up there! We could use some help here!”

The figure neither answered nor came closer. He moved so fast that he just seemed to melt silently into the surrounding fog. It’s a night for seeing men who aren’t there, I guess. I watched for a few seconds, but saw nothing else. I turned back to Lewis.

Fortunately, there wasn’t any blood. I hate blood. “Aw Christ …” I muttered. I knelt and gingerly touched the body. The weather was cool for a spring evening, but the body was still warm. Dammit. Lewis was probably dying all the time I was reading Phantoms.

“Jason, I have a bad feeling about this.” Sylvie said quietly.

“No kidding!” I snapped. Then I grinned faintly. “Sorry, Syl. No call for sarcasm. But you’re right, this is one heck of a mess.”

She shook her head. “I don’t mean it that way, Jason. The vibes are all wrong. There’s something… unnatural about this.”

That stopped me cold. Over the years I’ve come to rely on Sylvie’s “feelings”; I don’t really believe in ESP and all that crap, but… she has a hell of an intuition that’s saved my job and my life on occasion. “Oh. Well, we’ll see about it. Now I’d better call the cops; we’re going to be answering questions for a while.”

Normally I might have asked her more about what she meant; but something about the way she’d said “unnatural” bothered me. I zipped back to the office and grabbed up my phone; obviously I had the local police station on speed-dial, given that I worked with them a lot. The sergeant on duty assured me that someone would be along shortly. I was just hanging up when I heard a muffled scream.

I had the gun out again and was around the corner instantly. Sylvie was kneeling over the body, one hand on Lewis’ coat, the other over her mouth. “What’s wrong? Jesus, Syl, you scared the daylights out of me! And what the hell are you doing even near the body? You know what –”

She pointed a finger. “Explain that, mister information man.”

I looked.

On the side of Lewis’ neck, where the coat collar had covered, were two red marks. Small red dots, right over the carotid artery.

Two puncture marks.

“So he got bit by a couple mosquitoes. Big deal. There are two very happy bugs flying high tonight.”

Sylvie gave me a look she usually reserves for those who tell her that crystals are only good for radios and jewelry. “That is not what I meant, and you know that perfectly well. This man was obviously assaulted by a nosferatu.”

“Say what? Sounds like a Mexican pastry.”

“Jason, you are being deliberately obtuse. With all the darn horror novels you read, you know what nosferatu means.”

I nodded and sighed. “Okay, yeah. Nosferatu. The Undead. A vampire. Gimme a break, Syl. I may read the novels but I don’t live them. I think you’ve been reading too much of your woo-woo book stock lately.”

“And I think that you are doing what you always laugh at the characters in your books for doing: refusing to see the obvious.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but at that moment the wail of sirens interrupted, which was something of a relief. That’s the craziest discussion I’ve ever been in and maybe we can just forget she started it. Red and blue lights flashed at the alleyway — jeez, it must be a quiet night out there. Besides the locals, I saw two New York State Troopers; they must’ve been cruising the I-90 spur from Albany and heard about Lewis over the radio. I felt more comfortable as I spotted a familiar figure in the unmistakable uniform of the Morgantown PD coming forward.

Lieutenant Renee Reisman knelt and did a cursory once-over, her brown hair brushing her shoulders. “Either of you touch anything?” she asked.

I was glad it was Renee. We’d gone to school together and that made things a little easier. “I touched his face, just to check if he was still warm, which he was. Sylvie moved his collar a bit to see if he’d had his throat cut or something. Other than that, the only thing I did was open the door; he was leaning up against the door and fell in.”

“Okay.” She was one of the more modern types; instead of scribbling it all down in a notebook, a little voice-activated recorder was noting every word. “You’re both going to have to come down and make some statements.”

“I know the routine, Renee. Oh, and I know you’ll need to keep the door open a while during the picture taking and all; here’s the key. Lock up when you’re done.”

I told the sergeant we’d be taking my car; he pulled the PD cruiser out and waited while I started up Mjolnir. It was true enough that I could afford a better car than a Dodge Dart, even a silver-and-black one, but I kinda like a car that doesn’t crumple from a light breeze… and it wasn’t as though Mjolnir was exactly a factory-standard car, either.

Sylvie’s statement didn’t take that long; apparently she chose not to expound on her theory to the cops, which proved she had more common sense than most people. Mine took a couple hours since I had to explain about Lewis and why he might choose to die somewhere in my vicinity. A few years back I’d been in the area when two drug kingpins happened to get wiped. Then Elias got me involved in another case and a potential lead fell out a closed window. I was nearby. Cops don’t like it when one person keeps turning up around bodies.

It was one-thirty when we finally got out. I took a left at Chisolm Street and pulled into Denny’s. Sylvie was oddly quiet the whole time. Except for ordering, she didn’t say anything until we were already eating. “Jason. We have to talk.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“I know that you don’t believe in… a lot of the Powers. But you have to admit that my predictions and senses have proven useful before.”

“I can’t argue with that, Syl. But those were… ordinary occasions.” Admittedly, ordinary occasions where she gave me a warning in time to save my life, when I saw no way she could have known what was going to happen… “But now you’re talking about the late-night horror movies suddenly doing a walk-on in real life.”

She nodded. “Maybe you can’t feel it, Jase, but I am a true sensitive. I felt the Powers in the air about that poor man’s body. And that noise, Jason. Big as Lewis was, even he wouldn’t make that kind of noise just falling against the door. Something threw him, Jason, threw him hard enough to shake the windows.”

I nodded unwillingly. I’d already thought of that; honestly, I didn’t think Lewis could have made that kind of impact even if he’d been trying to batter the door down.

“Jase, it’s about time you faced the fact that there are some things that you are not going to find classified on a database somewhere, comfortably cross-indexed and referenced. But I’m not going to argue about it, not now. Just do me a favor and check into it, okay?”

I sighed. “Okay, I’ll nose around and see what I can find out. No offense, but I hope this time your feelings are haywire.”

Her blue eyes looked levelly into mine. “Believe me, Jason, I hope so too.”

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 15

Trial By Fire – Snippet 15

Chapter Eight

Washington D.C., Earth

Gaspard stared at Downing with wide eyes. “What do you mean? Why are you so sure they would attack our homeworld–and in violation of the Twenty-first Accord, no less?”

“It is a rather straight-forward deduction, Mr. Gaspard. Firstly, any place where one of their stars is within nine point seven light-years of one of our stars is a possible jumpoff point for a general invasion.”

Wasserman frowned at his palmtop. “I’ve already run those numbers. Unless the Arat Kur were going to take a circuitous route through their most far-flung system”–he pointed to the tip of the 3-D geodesic python’s tongue–”then they’ve got to jump into Barnard’s Star from across the nine point two nine light-year gap at 61 Cygni. That’s the only place where they can cross the gulf of deep space in one hop, and it brings them right into our home systems.”

Downing nodded. “And Barnard’s Star is also the key system when it comes to isolating us from our best colonies.”

“Okay, I get the danger to Earth,” Opal said with a frown, “but how could they cut us off from all the best green worlds by taking just one system?”

Wasserman’s stylus stilled. “Because all of our traffic and contact with the worlds beyond Alpha Centauri and Barnard’s Star runs through Ross 154. From Barnard’s Star, it’s one shift to Ross 154. Once they’re there, they’ve got the run of our house.”

Gaspard’s faintly contemptuous demeanor had become far more serious. “Very well. So we have some idea of how our most likely adversary would proceed against us. Perhaps it is time to consider other threats.” He turned to Hwang. “Doctor, what have you learned from the Ktor environmental tanks you scanned at the Convocation?”

Hwang frowned. “Not much. Any further conjectures regarding Ktoran biology are going to require much closer analysis of the data. Or maybe better data.”

“Why?”

“Because all we’ve got to go on is respiratory wastes, and those results are inconclusive.”

“What do you mean, ‘inconclusive’?”

Hwang looked vaguely embarrassed. “I can’t tell which are the gases they inhale and which are the ones they exhale. Assuming they breathe at all.”

Gaspard shook his head. “More simply, please.”

“Let me use a human example. If I were to collect the gases you exhale, how would they differ from what you had inhaled?”

“There would be a higher concentration of carbon dioxide.”

“Exactly. That’s the primary waste gas. And there’d be a lower concentration of oxygen, the metabolically necessary gas. And, if I knew nothing about human physiology other than those respiratory gases and the temperature at which we exist, I could be reasonably sure that humans are carbon-based, and therefore, use water as a transport medium and solvent.”

“But with the Ktor–?”

“With the Ktor I can’t tell from the results which gas they need and which is their waste gas. And there’s no guarantee that their respiration is based upon gases at all. They could be metabolizing what they need from liquids.”

“Which means that we know nothing about them, either?” Gaspard asked, his fingers spread wide in frustration.

Downing shrugged. “That’s not quite true. Dr. Hwang’s study of the PSI limits of their tanks indicate that the gases they breathe are at a maximum pressure of two point four atmospheres. Also, there are some brief mentions of the Ktor in the Dornaani self-reference materials.”

Gaspard cocked his head. “But there is a prohibition against sharing information about another race.”

“Perhaps this is a special case, since the Ktor are inextricably bound up in the founding of the Accord. They were the first race that the Dornaani encountered, and had a major impact upon the Accords themselves and thus, Dornaani history.”

Gaspard ran a finger under his jaw line. “Did the Ktor coauthor the Accords, then?”

“No. The Accords’ principles were inherited from an earlier epoch that Alnduul has mentioned fleetingly. But the Ktor were the source of most of its privacy requirements. They refused to share any biological information on themselves. They refused to indicate their world of origin, claiming that it was very distant and had long ago become unable to support life. But the most troubling aspect was that the Dornaani were unable to verify the number of systems that the Ktor had settled.”

“Why?”

“Because the Ktor already had FTL capability and refused to let the Dornaani within their borders. So the Dornaani either had to accept their word, or wait for some other race with which to found the Accord. Evidently, the vote to found the Accord with the Ktor was very narrow indeed.”

Wasserman smirked. “You’ve gotta wonder if the descendants of the ones who lost the vote have been saying ‘told you so’ ever since.”

Elena was shaking her head slowly. Downing let his voice drop to a slightly softer pitch. “What is it, Elena?”

“According to Ben, the sensor data indicates that the Ktor must inhabit an environment where the temperatures are so low that any of our worlds–even Mars–would be utterly uninhabitable for them. Which means that Ktor-suitable worlds would only exist in the farther orbits, which are usually dominated by gas giants and iceballs, like Pluto. True?”

“Yeah,” agreed Wasserman, who was watching Elena with considerable attention now.

“And how many worlds in those orbits have we discovered which would have seas or atmospheres of the right composition?”

Lemuel frowned. “Three or four–maybe.”

Elena nodded. “So these are among the most rare of all planetary types.”

“Yeah, I guess you could put it that way.”

“Well then,” Elena said, looking around the conference table, “how is it that the Ktor have managed to find so many suitable planets to settle? And why should they give a damn about the expansion of, or even interaction with, carbon-based life-forms? They must know we have no interest in their habitable worlds and vice versa. But the Ktor keep their borders inviolate, and their privacy absolute, so that–from day one–the Custodians can’t get answers to these questions.” She frowned, stared at the far wall. “It sounds to me like they’re hiding something.”

Downing nodded. “I agree, but the Ktor are not our immediate worry. With their prime world located at 58 Eridani and the Dornaani homeworld at Gliese 290, they are both in a different strategic theater. And as Lemuel reminded us, the Custodians can prevent the Ktor from making any incursions into our space.”

“And how can we be sure that they are able to do so?” Gaspard asked skeptically.

“Oh, they have the technological capability, Mr. Gaspard,” Downing answered. “When the Dornaani took Misters Riordan and Corcoran and me to Barnard’s Star, they did it in a single instant, and from a standing start.” He let Gaspard digest that for a second. “That’s sixteen light-years in the blink of an eye, without any preacceleration.”

Gaspard’s eyebrows rose. Hwang whistled long and low. But Elena looked thoughtfully at her folded hands. Downing leaned in her direction “El, you don’t seem to find this very surprising.”

She didn’t look up. “Why should I? The Dornaani have been interstellar travelers and overseers for seven thousand years, possibly much more. And perhaps they inherited technologies from the great powers of whatever epoch preceded this one, perhaps from the same exosapients who transplanted humans to DeePeeThree. Given all that time and experience, what might the Dornaani be capable of now?”

Gaspard nodded somberly. “Indeed, Ms. Corcoran. What would they not be capable of?”

Downing cleared his throat. “While we are on the topic of exosapient capabilities, there’s one last item of highly classified information that I must share with this group.” Downing was silent until every eye in the room came to rest on him. “While I was at Barnard’s Star, I received a package of data that was originally in Nolan Corcoran’s possession. It indicates that the doomsday rock which was on course to blast Earth back to the Bronze Age thirty-six years ago was, in fact, a weaponized Kuiper-belt asteroid, pushed onto an intercept trajectory by gradual mass-driver acceleration. That acceleration took place while the Ktor were assisting the Dornaani with their Custodial duties in this system.”

“So those damn water-tanks tried rock-nuking us?”

“Major Patrone, we are unable to confirm that. However, we do know that the Ktor had legal and ready access to our system at the time the rock was weaponized.”

Gaspard rubbed his chin. “And the motive? After all, less than six weeks ago, the Ktor attempted to woo you into joining their protest against Dornaani preeminence.”

Elena shrugged. “Yes, but that may have been the Ktorans’ plan B, Mr. Gaspard. For all we know, their plan A was to drop the doomsday rock on us and thereby remove us from the current game before we could even get on the playing field. When that scheme failed, recruiting us may have become their next-best alternative.”

Gaspard’s nod and pout suggested that he not only approved of Elena’s hypothesis, but of her quick wits. “Yes, that would be consistent. Either action has the same implicit end: to destroy the Accord, or at least isolate the Dornaani and make them ineffectual.”

“And to grab turf,” muttered Lemuel. “If you’ve read the report, then you know that the Ktor representative came on to us like Ribbentrop trying to sweet-talk Chamberlain into allowing Nazi expansion. Gave me the chills.”

Gaspard nodded absently in Wasserman’s direction as he checked his watch and rose. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. I found this briefing most stimulating. And now I must go.”

Downing forced himself to remain courteous, despite Gaspard’s indecorously abrupt leave-taking. “Mr. Gaspard, are you sure–quite sure–this is all the briefing you require?”

“Quite certain, Mr. Downing. I read your basic reports thoroughly on the flight over. The topics we have discussed were the ones that wanted further explication. Good day.” With a brisk stride, he was out the door.

“Damn,” muttered Opal, staring after him, “guess he flunked charm school.” She turned to the rest of the group. “Now what?”

“Now,” answered Downing, “we wait.”

“For what?” asked Wasserman.

“For tidings of peace,” sighed Downing, “or war.”

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 14

Trial By Fire – Snippet 14

Gaspard sniffed, turned away from Wasserman. “Only the basics. That there were five other species present–the Arat Kur, the Ktor, the Hkh’Rkh, the Slaasriithi, and the Dornaani. That the first three of those were not friendly, and that the Arat Kur were decidedly hostile. That the Dornaani are charged with being Custodians, a kind of overseer/peacekeeper duty, as I understand it. And the three unfriendly races–but again, particularly the Arat Kur–were laboring to exploit every possible procedural irregularity to ensure that Earth was denied membership in the Accord. However, their ultimate purpose for doing so remained obscure.”

Elena shifted in her seat. “Mr. Gaspard, having been present for those exchanges, I have to report that their reasons seemed anything but obscure. The Arat Kur, aided by the backroom machinations of the Ktor and the intemperate behavior of the Hkh’Rkh, were pushing us all toward war. And there’s an excellent chance that they will succeed. If they haven’t already.”

Gaspard tilted his head. “I seem to recall reading that the pretext upon which the Arat Kur based the majority of their procedural disruptions was the matter of our settlement of the 70 Ophiuchi system, no?”

“That is correct,” Downing said. “The Arat Kur claimed this was a violation of the Fifteenth Accord, which requires that all members of the Accord remain within their approved pathways of expansion. However, since we had commenced settlement of that system before we were first contacted eighteen weeks ago, the failure was not ours.”

“Which the Arat Kur accepted, no?”

“Yes, they accepted it. But they also wanted the Accord to order us out of the system.”

“But the Accord had no authority to do so,” objected Gaspard. “It may not dictate territorial policy to a species that has not been confirmed as a member of the Accord.”

Elena spoke over steepled fingers. “Of course, all these juridical details may become moot.”

Gaspard lifted his patrician chin. “How?”

“The Arat Kur may decide to forcibly evict us, regardless of the Accords. Which they suggested were not worthy of continued compliance, when the Custodians revealed the location of their homeworld to be Sigma Draconis. Of course, that may have been precisely the casus belli that the Arat Kur wanted. Throughout the proceedings, they were indirectly daring the Custodians to cross that line.”

“And there’s another clue that they were spoiling for a fight,” added Ben Hwang. “Whereas every other species allowed some cultural exchange, the Arat Kur refused to share any information about themselves. They gave us no clues as to their physiology, their biosphere, their interstellar distribution, or their civilization.”

At the word “civilization,” Richard saw Elena frown. “El,” he prompted, “what is it? What have you deduced about the Arat Kur?”

Elena shrugged. “I don’t have facts, only a hypothesis.” Silence and six pair of eyes invited her to amplify. “I believe the Arat Kur are primarily a subterranean species.”

Gaspard leaned forward. “Why do you think this, Ms. Corcoran?”

“Because of their idioms. The Dornaani translation technology is extremely sophisticated. Most pertinently, it uses semantic equivalences where it must, but transliterates axioms and colloquialisms that would make sense to the listener. Consider these two expressions from the remarks of the Arat Kur leader Hu’urs Khraam, who stepped in for their senior ambassador Zirsoo Kh’n when the political breach between the Arat Kur and the Custodians became imminent. Listen: ‘Your words dig tunnels in sand,’ and ‘your ultimatum leaves us no middle course: you force us to either scuttle back or shatter bedrock.’ In addition, consider the title of their polity–the Wholenest–and their apparent tendencies toward conservatism, bureaucratic proceduralism, and caution.”

Gaspard leaned his chin upon his palm. “And why would these be traits of a subterranean species?”

“Not just any subterranean species, but one which has achieved sapience. Consider the challenges they’d face in terms of population control, waste management, construction, water and food distribution. They can’t just fold up their tents and seek a better life over the next ridgeline. Indeed, they may not even have a word that combines the concept of being a ‘nomad’ with ‘sapience.’ All the particulars of a subterranean race’s existence would be dependent upon careful, logical, premeditated action.”

Ben Hwang was nodding slowly. “And they would tend to perceive anything less than that as irresponsible, impulsive, childish.”

“Or, possibly, insane.”

Lemuel grinned wickedly. “Won’t they have fun with the Hkh’Rkh if they become allies.”

Hwang frowned. “Just because the two species are dissimilar doesn’t mean they wouldn’t be an effective team. Each has what the other lacks; although Hkh’Rkh don’t evince the discipline and planning of the Arat Kur, they certainly seem to make up for it in daring and decisiveness.”

Gaspard leaned back. “If correct, your theories suggest key features of the Arat Kurs’ basic psychology. That is crucial strategic data.”

“Sure.” Opal stared into space as if she were thinking through the military and operational practicalities. “They’d probably be comfortable for long stays in space. No claustrophobia. Probably have comparatively poor eyesight: invariant light conditions and no need to scan a horizon. However, other senses might be enhanced. Also, I’ll bet they tend to build downward on the z axis, not upward, like us tree-dwellers. And I’d lay odds that their evolution did not include an aquatic phase, at least not as recently as ours. In fact, they might be highly hydrophobic. Underground, water becomes a real threat. Hit it while digging and you’ll kill hundreds, thousands. That also means they’re less likely to be seafaring at an early a point in their social evolution, therefore slower to spread to other landmasses. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if they can’t swim, or maybe can’t even float–”

Gaspard beamed. “Excellent. This is precisely what I came to hear: useful extrapolative information about a potential foe. It may all be hypothetical, but it is infinitely more than we had when I walked into this room.”

“While we are on the topic of the Arat Kur,” murmured Thandla, “I have another piece of information I think you will appreciate.”

The group looked at him, surprised–Gaspard most of all. “Dr. Thandla, have your research efforts been shifted to the Arat Kur? I was told that you were working on decoding the ‘child’s primer’ that the Slaasriithi gave us as a means of becoming acquainted with their race.”

Sanjay’s answering grin was very broad. “Oh no, you are quite right. I am working on the Slaasriithi primer.”

“So what does that have to do with the Arat Kur?”

“Everything. You see, the Slaasriithi also used the primer to pass us encoded information about the Arat Kur.”

Downing sat upright. “How much information, Dr. Thandla?”

Thandla looked sideways at Downing. “It is nothing like a dossier, Mr. Downing. It is far simpler than that, almost a puzzle, if you like. Indeed, I only thought to look for it after Ms. Corcoran noticed the Slaasriithi ambassador’s marked emphasis upon the importance of the primer’s supplementary information.”

Downing nodded. “And that is where you found the puzzle?”

“Correct. It is subtle. And quite tricky. Which I think was entirely intentional.”

Gaspard peered over folded hands. “What do you mean?”

“I believe the data was hidden not only to protect the Slaasriithi from being accused of sharing information pertaining to another species. I think their message was also a test. If we did not take the time or were not clever enough to ‘win’ at that game–well, that served their purposes, too.”

Elena smiled faintly. “So being able to find and decode the hidden message also meant that we were worthy of it.”

Thandla nodded. “Yes, and this is what I found: a single graphic comprised of multiple overlays.” An insanely irregular 3-D polygon appeared on the room’s main display. It looked vaguely like a cubistic python digesting a pig.

Hwang frowned. “What is that? Arat Kur genetics?”

Thandla smiled. “No, it’s–”

“Hot damn!” Lemuel Wasserman’s tone was triumphant. “That’s a 3-D map of interstellar space. Specifically, of the limits of Arat Kur space, judging from the buildup Sanjay’s given us. Which means that all the angles in that geodesic solid must be centered on stars, and all the connecting lines between each pair of angles must be proportional to the distances between the corresponding stars in Arat Kur space.”

Downing frowned. “But if you don’t know the distances–”

Lemuel shook his head and rode right over the top of Downing and Thandla’s attempt to resume his explanation. “You don’t need to know the distances. As long as the proportions are precise, that shape is like a fingerprint. And we know that, somewhere in there, is Sigma Draconis.”

Thandla smiled. “Just so. And here’s the next layer of the puzzle.” Now, at each of the polygon’s articulating points and intersections, a bright marker winked into being. Similar bright markers faded in from the darkness within the interior of the shape. Then, the lines joining all those star-points that were relatively close to each other illuminated slightly. Thandla pointed to an orange-yellow point near the jaw of the python. “That’s Sigma Draconis. The angles of incidence and the ratio of the distances to each of the adjoining stars is a precise match.”

Downing folded his hands to keep an eager quiver from becoming evident. “And you know what else those bright lines tell us.”

Wasserman grunted as he started racing through calculations on his palmcomp. “Their maximum shift range. Which will be a value somewhere between the longest illuminated line and the shortest nonilluminated line. Which will be a pretty small numerical range.”

“That conjecture assumes they can’t conduct deep space refueling from prepositioned caches,” Hwang pointed out.

“True,” Lemuel agreed, still hunched over his palmcomp, “but that’s a reasonable assumption.”

“Why?”

“Well, first off, the Slaasriithi would anticipate that question, right? So they’d build a clue into the graphic that some of these lines were not ‘one-shift transits.’ Maybe put some kind of special marker at the midpoint, where the two shifts would be joined end to end. Secondly, we know that both Slaasriithi and Arat Kur technology are an order of magnitude behind the Dornaani and Ktor. So I think we can project that the Arat Kur shift drive, like ours, depends on stellar gravity wells to function as navigational bookends for each shift. You need to start at one star and end at the other.”

Gaspard had folded his hands. “Mr. Wasserman, it is strategically crucial that we do not underestimate the Arat Kur. But your extrapolation–that they are unable to shift to deep space because we cannot–seems based upon a dangerous presupposition regarding the essential parity of their technology and our own.”

Wasserman’s smile was wolfish. “Wrong–because even the Ktor, who are the second oldest members of the Accord and have had FTL capability for millennia, apparently, can’t pull off deep-space shifts, either.”

Downing blinked. “How can you be sure, Lemuel?”

Wasserman shrugged. “Simple logic. The Dornaani have assured us that they can prevent the Ktor from entering our space. But if the Ktor did have the capacity for deep space navigation, then they could get around the Dornaani by going from one prepositioned deep space fuel cache to another, and show up unannounced in our back yard. And if they did that, then we’d know the Dornaani are liars and wouldn’t support their interests anymore. So, if the Ktoran technology can’t handle deep space shift navigation, then we can be sure as hell that the less advanced races–like the Arat Kur–can’t pull it off, either.”

Downing was determined not to let his admiration for Wasserman’s swift deduction show in his face. “So what can you tell us about their shift range?”

“I’ve run all the stellar pairs that are joined by shift-lines. No distance is greater than nine point five light-years.”

“And what is the shortest distance between any two stars that are not joined by a shift-line?”

“Nine point seven. So their maximum shift range is someplace between nine point five and nine point seven light-years. And that confirms our suspicions that they’re operating at something like our level of technical ability. At least within the same order of magnitude.”

“Equally important,” Downing mused, “it allows us to predict their preferred strategic option.”

“What do you mean by that?” Gaspard asked.

“I am referring to the places they are most likely to attack first.”

“And given that shift range, what do you project as their most likely path of attack?”

“They’d start with Barnard’s Star.”

“And then?”

Downing shrugged. “Why, Earth. Of course.”

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 13

Trial By Fire – Snippet 13

Chapter Seven

Washington D.C., Earth

Richard Downing entered the office he had shared with Nolan Corcoran for more than a decade, and stared wistfully at the couch in the waiting room. Sleep would be very welcome and would come all too easily. He had been planetside less than six hours and had already briefed the POTUS, the Joint Chiefs, and the intelligence agencies. And only now could his real work begin.

Once in the conference room, he activated the commplex, told it to place a call, dropped into a chair, and rubbed his face so he would appear alert and fresh. Well, alert. Mostly.

The commplex checked Downing’s identity and then indicated that the requested individual was on the line. “Mr. Rulaine,” he said, stifling a yawn, “I trust you’ve found your early retirement from the Special Forces relaxing?”

“Yes, sir. A little too relaxing.”

“Well, we’ll remedy that soon enough. Now, about your team: their medical discharges went through without a problem?”

“Yes sir, although the clerk did eyeball the five of us pretty strangely.”

Downing imagined the scene: the five men–a Green Beret (Rulaine himself), three SEALs (Jacob Winfield, Stanislaus Witkowski, and Carlos Cruz) and a bear of a Secret Service agent (Matthew Barr)–clustered around a desk to “medical out” of their respective services. “Medical cause, sir?” the clerk would have asked. “Unspecified,” Bannor Rulaine would have answered in the flat baritone that was his all-business voice. And that first question would have been the last that the clerk asked the five of them.

“And you are satisfied with the authenticity of the fictional security firm that is now retaining your services?”

Bannor nodded. “Yes sir. Incorporation papers, contact data, client lists, transactions, all perfectly legit, even if scrutinized by a Congressional subcommittee. And by the way, I would like to convey the group’s collective thanks for the very generous employment terms.”

Which you will earn many times over, you poor sods. “You are all very welcome. I’m short on time, Captain, so let’s review the OpOrds. My system will require a real-time biometric security check, so please activate your video pickup.”

“Will do, sir.” The screen on Downing’s commplex faded up from black, revealing Bannor Rulaine’s thinning sandy hair and calm hazel eyes. Downing nodded a greeting, watched the OpOrd file upload begin, and reviewed Rulaine’s hardcopy record, located out of the commplex’s visual field.

According to his atypical dossier, Bannor Rulaine had gone to Dartmouth–gone, but never graduated. He found information imparted by drill instructors vastly preferable to that offered by professors. Instead of flunking out of the Fort Benning School for Wayward Boys, he had exceeded its expectations. His first posting had been to OCS, with more than a few of his trainers grumbling that the brass always ruined the best soldiers they produced by adorning their shoulders with shiny metal bars instead of honest fabric stripes.

Rulaine was already scanning the ops file. “So all five of us are to drop out of sight as soon as we’ve picked up the equipment here in Baltimore.”

“Yes, all of which is ‘defective’ Army issue. It is fully functional, of course.”

“Of course. What are you giving us, sir?”

“The lot. Everything you could want, except EVA gear; that’s as scarce as hen’s teeth right now. The cache–enough to support two fire teams for a month of extensive operations–has been sealed in a secure commercial container, waiting for you on the docks.”

Bannor nodded, then frowned. “Sir, I know I shouldn’t ask, but I have to anyway. Why all the cloak-and-dagger maneuvering?”

“A fair question. Here’s the frank answer: if there is a war scare, every official asset—material or human–could get commandeered. So I am precautionarily setting aside some cells of independent operatives–prepositioned and presupplied–that cannot be usurped by higher authorities later on.”

“I read you five by five, sir. Logically, you’ll want us to drop out of sight until you need us, so I presume you’ve set aside a specific location?”

“Yes. Caribbean. Lesser Antilles. Nevis, just south of St. Kitts. Friends of mine have a house there, and I think your men will enjoy a little time in a tropical paradise.”

“Well, sure. Sir.”

“They are to stay current on their dive ops and zero-gee equivalency qualifications. They are also to get to know the local rental agencies for VTOLs. And they will need to become friendly with the crew of the open-water vehicle ferry attached to the Season’s Classic resort property–and must prepare an ops plan for the possible seizure of that vessel.”

“Why, sir?”

“Because it may also become necessary for you to commandeer some VTOLs. In that event, you’ll need the ferry’s deck space to carry them if you have to move to your area of operations by sea.”

“So if the balloon goes up, we close to target by surface craft, and then VTOL off the deck?”

“Best if you beach the ferry first, but yes, that’s the plan.”

“And what’s our target?”

“That’s the great unknown. That’s why we’re keeping your men in ready reserve on an island.”

Rulaine’s grin was lopsided. “That’s the typical life of a soldier, Mr. Downing: hurry up and wait.”

“‘Fraid so. The Nevis address is at the end of Appendix B. It is a summer home, and the owners–friends of mine who have Langley connections–have agreed to let your group ‘look after it’ in their absence. No close contact with the locals, though.”

“Right. We’re there because we’re a bunch of dive junkies. And if someone asks us if we know the owner, or his friend Richard Downing, we just answer ‘who?’ And we send you a picture of whoever did the asking.”

“Good lad. Enjoy your stay in the Caribbean. Good speaking to you.”

“And you, sir. We’ll be awaiting your signal.”

“Or Captain Corcoran’s. He will be your direct CO, so you may get your final activation orders from him.”

“Roger that, sir, and good luck.”

“You, too, Captain.” The link dissolved.

Before the light had fully faded from the screen, there was a knock on the door. Downing sighed. Chatting with Rulaine had been easy, even relaxing. But the rest of the day’s agenda was devoted to an official briefing with other members of the delegation that had accompanied Downing to the Accord’s Convocation, and who, for different reasons, now brought headache-generating issues with them. Young genius physicist Lemuel Wasserman was significantly more abrasive than sandpaper. Biologist Ben Hwang and cyber whiz Sanjay Thandla were usually even-tempered, but Lemuel was completely capable of setting either one of them off. Major Opal Patrone had been compelled to leave behind her security charge–and paramour–Caine Riordan and clearly loathed Downing as the architect of that separation. Elena Corcoran–Nolan’s daughter and Richard’s god-child–still believed herself the only person in the room who knew that, fourteen years ago, Caine had fallen in love with her and fathered her son Connor–all in the one hundred hours that Nolan had erased from Riordan’s memory. Erased, that is, until those memories had been restored a month ago on Barney Deucy. But Elena didn’t know that, and didn’t know that Downing and her brother Trevor had learned that ticklish secret, too.

All of which was sure to be complicated by the intellectual posturings and airs of the most insufferable French diplomat Richard had ever met: an old-school, Sorbonne-style wanker named–

“It is Etienne Gaspard, Monsieur Downing,” announced a voice beyond the door, “along with, er, others.”

“Please come in, Mr. Gaspard. And do bring the ‘others’ in with you.”

Gaspard was the first through the door. Lemuel Wasserman was right behind him, his eyes already boring ferociously into the Frenchman’s back. To Downing’s knowledge, the two had never met each other, but it was entirely possible that Gaspard’s suave, aloof superiority could have run afoul of Wasserman’s blunt and vitriolic arrogance in the few moments they had been waiting together.

Opal Patrone, Ben Hwang, and Sanjay Thandla filed in, and lastly, at a slightly greater distance, Elena. And now that Downing knew what to look for, he realized that Elena had always put a little extra space between herself and Opal, but had been friendly and gracious, even while doing so. Her ethics allowed her no other course. Since Opal was thoroughly unaware of Elena’s prior connection to Caine, animus was both patently unfair and utterly illogical. And so far as Elena knew, Caine still had no recollection of their own whirlwind lunar romance. But, eventually, Caine would return, and then the matter would have to be addressed and settled, one way or the other. Richard devoutly hoped he would be in another city–preferably another state–when it was.

“It seems you have been quite busy since the Parthenon Dialogs, Mr. Downing.”

Gaspard’s almost truculent comment startled Downing out of the contemplative haze into which he had fallen. “You are referring to our visit to the Convocation last month, I take it?”

“I am referring to everything, Mr. Downing. There are your trips to Mars, to the Convocation, then Barnard’s Star. You have had your hands very full from the moment Admiral Corcoran died. Or so it seems to me.”

Downing nodded diffidently, schooled his features to calm agreement as he watched Gaspard’s face for any sign that the diplomat was probing after the possibility that Nolan’s death had put some burden–some unseen and unnamed mantel of responsibility–upon Richard’s neck. Specifically, had Gaspard heard whispers of a secret organization named IRIS, and was he snooping around to get confirmation that Downing was now its director?

But Downing saw no hint of incisive purpose in Gaspard’s face, and so, felt safe enough to indulge in a genuine smile. “Yes, Mr. Gaspard. It has been a busy time. For everyone in this room. Yourself, not least of all, as I understand it.”

Gaspard’s eyes rolled in exasperation. “Oui, vraiment. But my seventy- and eighty-hour weeks have not come with the exciting novelties that arise from unprecedented contact with exosapients. Mine has been the same dull routine of politics; only the names have changed.”

“The names of the politicians?” asked Opal.

“Unfortunately, no. The same collection of cut-throats, crooks, and incompetents are still steering our planet’s various ships of state. But the names of everything else–agencies, treaty organizations, even the blocs themselves–are in flux. I spend half my time just trying to discern which new names go with which old institutions. It is utter madness.”

And you spend the other half of your time exercising your considerable gift for hyperbole, Downing added silently. Aloud: “Nevertheless, you and the rest of the Confederation Consuls are to be congratulated. From what I hear, the transition to global coordination–at least on military and industrial matters–seems to be progressing nicely.”

Gaspard snorted. “Simple lies for simpletons. The ‘transition’ is a maelstrom of endless, petty bickering. Do not believe the optimistic analysts or headlines, Mr. Downing.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you know the global state of play better than the rest of the world’s experts,” drawled Wasserman.

Gaspard looked down his lengthy nose at Wasserman. “You may discover, Doctor, that my cynicism, which you presently elect to insult, shall later prove to be an asset for which you are grateful. To be more specific: I do not ‘know better.’ I am merely unwilling to be swayed by what I wish to be true. And since the issue at hand is nothing less than the fate of our planet, I contend it is ludicrous to assess the actual state of our readiness with the same rosy optimism that children adopt when anticipating the arrival of Father Christmas.”

Downing raised a hand. “For now, let’s ignore the political merits of morale-building PR versus pitiless rationalism. We are here for one reason only: to brief you, Mr. Gaspard.”

“Just so. I require your detailed impressions of what occurred at the Convocation, with particular attention to what you learned about the other species of the Accord, and why you believe the meeting ended so disastrously.” Gaspard’s eyes narrowed as he indulged in a thin, unpleasant smile. “I would hear from Dr. Wasserman, first.”

Downing intervened, seeing that Gaspard was spoiling for a fight. “I think a round-robin debrief will not only be faster, but develop a better pool of knowledge for you, Mr. Gaspard, particularly if you’d start by telling us what information you already have.”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 41

This book should be available now so this is the final snippet.

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 41

Tromp leaned back and shook his head. “No. Men who have no freedom have little to lose. When such men are also being worked to death, they understand quickly enough that soon they will also lose the last thing they value: their lives, and those of their families. At that point, it is only logical for them to risk the probable suicide of unarmed rebellion rather than continue toward the certain suicide of eventually dying of malnourished exhaustion in the fields.”

Haet leaned in aggressively. “And then why are the Spanish so successful using slaves, Tromp? They seem to do well enough and get rich while doing it.”

Tromp studied Haet calmly but very directly. “Because, Mijn Heer Haet, the Spanish are not hanging on by their fingernails, as we are. They are routinely re-supplied, routinely reinforced, and routinely involved in ruthlessly squashing any hint of resistance in their subject populations.”

“And the Dutch East India Company does no less. And thrives!” countered Haet.

Jan van Walbeeck spoke quietly and without any trace of his customary animation. “I have been to those colonies, Haet, have been among their slaves. Have seen, have felt, the hatred for us in their eyes, in their gestures, in their quiet, patient watching. Are those Pacific colonies profitable? Yes, most certainly. Are they safe? Only so long as you have guns trained on the slaves, Haet. And one day — and it will only take one day — we will be weak, or forgetful, and we will stumble. And they will slaughter us and drive us back into the seas which brought us like a curse to their shores.”

Haet snorted. “So you prefer the natives to your own kind, van Walbeeck?”

“No, Haet, but I understand that they feel about us enslaving them on their own land exactly the way we felt about the Spanish doing the same to us in the Netherlands. And you know what we did to the Spanish when we finally got the chance.”

Haet was going to speak, but swallowed whatever words he might have spoken. 

Tromp exchanged glances with van Walbeeck. Good: the conversation had remained on a practical footing. The ethical discussions over slavery had long ago proven themselves to be emotional morasses which achieved nothing but the expenditure of countless, profitless, hours. And they invariably led to the slaveholding faction accusing their opponents of succumbing to up-time influence (often true) and, by extrapolation, being Grantville’s lackeys (not at all true). Indeed, since adolescence, Tromp had been disquieted by the circuitous rationalizations his countrymen and others employed when resolving their Christian piety with their grasp upon the slaveholder’s whip. But, as an admiral, his life had not had much direct involvement with such matters, or the resolution of such issues.

But here in a New World where the Dutch colonies were hanging on by a thread that only remained uncut because the Spanish had not yet discovered it, the domain of the military and the commercial had begun to overlap. With no help or even news coming from the United Provinces, all choices, all decisions made locally had a bearing upon all other local decisions. And so Tromp had been compelled to weigh both the practical and ethical burdens and benefits of slavery.

Van Walbeeck, having arrived in Oranjestad ahead of him, had been an invaluable interlocutor on the matter, and the smattering of copied up-time texts in his library had been the catalyst for their discussions and grist for much deep thought. Leaving Recife, Tromp had been leaning against slavery for practical reasons, which happily aligned with his largely unstudied ethical misgivings. But the past year at Saint Eustatia had confirmed him in the belief that, just as he had felt it his duty to become a church deacon if he was to live a Christian life and not merely profess one, so too he could not truly call himself a Christian without also working to undo the institution of slavery.

Van Walbeeck turned mild eyes upon the gathered contingent of councilors. “Any other observations on the matter?”

The quiet, careful Servatius Carpentiere, shrugged. “There will be much unrest among the colonists, particularly since the Politieke Raad approved your recommendation to prohibit raising tobacco.” His voice was apologetic. One of Tromp’s most stalwart supporters, Carpentiere was raising an issue that clearly had been pressed upon him by the colonists, but would certainly play into the hands of the admiral’s detractors.

Musen lost no time wielding it as a rhetorical weapon. “You see, Admiral? Your own hand-picked advisers from Recife foresee problems with your decisions. First you prohibit the further acquisition of slaves. Then you urge the growing of cane sugar, which involves immense amounts of labor, in place of tobacco, which is much easier to grow and harvest. And which was why most of us came to Oranjestad in the first place.”

Tromp nodded. “Yes. That is true. And when you came, tell me: what did you plan to do with the tobacco?”

Haet, not seeing the trap, blurted out, “Why, sell it, of course!”

“Where?”

“Back in –” and he stopped.

Tromp just nodded again. “Exactly. ‘Back in the Provinces.’ Or ‘Europe.’ It hardly matters where, specifically. The problem is that those markets are an ocean away from us here, and our own ports are unreachable, due to the Spanish. What few ships hide in smaller harbor towns are merely jachts which have no reason to brave the swells of the Atlantic. And even if they knew we still existed here, ready to trade, what of it? Yes, jachts are fast, nimble ships. But useless for freighting smoke or anything else in bulk. So tell me, Mijn Heer Haet, given the changes since you arrived here, where, now, would you sell your tobacco?”

Musen smoothly changed the footing of his side’s argument to a less disastrous posture. “Even if that were to be true, Admiral — cane sugar? The most labor-intensive crop in the New World?”

“And the only one for which we have any local use,” replied van Walbeeck. “What else would you grow for high profit? Cotton? The labor is almost as bad as cane but, again, there’s the same problem: where would you sell that cotton? The fact that drives all our choices is this, Mijn Heer Musen: we no longer have access to markets. Our ships cannot come here safely, and we cannot spare any to undertake the equally perilous voyage from here to Europe. And what’s more, any regular commerce between us and our homeports would only tell the Spanish — or others — where to find us, where to hunt us down and exterminate us.

“So we grow sugar. We may eat it ourselves, and we may make rum — which has local value even to the natives, in these parts. And which we may further refine into disinfectants and a flammable fluid. And if we cannot grow so much because we have no slaves? Well, firstly, we have no shortage of able-bodies without tasks to occupy them. And so we will learn that you do not need slaves to grow cane, and set the pattern for creating a durable local economy which is not based upon slavery.”

Haet looked as though he might spit. “I did not come here to work like a dog in the fields. I came here to get rich.”

Tromp nodded. “Yes. But apparently fate had other plans.”

Jehan de Bruyne rubbed his chin. “Or perhaps it is Martin Tromp that has had other plans.”

Tromp kept his head and voice very still. “I assure you, Mijn Heer, that being defeated by treachery at Dunkirk, and seeing the Dutch fleet reduced to three dozen hulls, was not any plan of mine. And it is that outcome — that and no other — which forces these changes upon us. You wished to be rich? Fair enough. I wanted to return home, to my wife and children. As do many of us who fled to Recife.” He stood. “What men want is of little matter to the will of God and the hand of fate. I suggest we focus on a new want that we should all share: the desire to stay alive long enough for our own countrymen to find and succor us. Because that outcome is by no means certain.” By no means, indeed. “Now, Mijn Heeren, if we are quite done, I have arrangements to make for the fleet. About which you shall be informed shortly. Good day.”

The envoys from both the Politieke Raad and the original colonists’ Council nodded their way toward the door they had entered through. Van Walbeeck rose to go as well, but Tromp motioned him to stay in his seat with a down-waved palm.

When the rest had left, Jan cocked his head like a quizzical spaniel.

Tromp sighed. “Stay and hear what I tell the captains. Someone will need to report it to the Raad and Council. And the rest of the colonists, too.”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 40

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 40

Van Walbeeck nodded enthusiastically. “Most prudent. And speaking of guards, I’m wondering if we shouldn’t set up some special detachments of them here, too.”

Tromp folded his arms. “You mean, here in Oranjestad? We already have greatly over-sized guard complements on all our warehouses, on the batteries, the outposts, the –”

“We need them on the women, Martin. Particularly the visiting English ladies.”

“The ladies –?” And then Tromp understood. “Oh.”

“Yes. ‘Oh.’ Martin, there are less than four hundred women on Saint Eustatia, out of almost three thousand persons, more if you count our shipboard crews. Most of the four hundred women are already married. And you have seen the effects, surely.”

Tromp surely had. Brawls, drunken or otherwise, had been steadily increasing for six months. And however the causes and particulars varied, there was usually a common thread: it had started over a woman. It may have been that the woman in question had never spoken to, perhaps never even looked at, any of the combatants, but that hardly mattered. Like a bunch of young bucks in rutting season, any incident that could in any way be construed as a dispute over mating dominance resulted in locked horns. “What do you suggest?” he asked van Walbeeck.

“Cuthbert Pudsey.”

“The English mercenary who’s been in our ranks from Recife onward? A one man guard-detachment?”

“Martin, do not be willfully obtuse. Of course not. Pudsey is to be the leader of, let us call it a ‘flying squad’ of escorts who will accompany any English ladies who come to call at Oranjestad. And given that it will be a merit-earned duty –”

“Yes. Perfect comportment and recommendations will be the prerequisite for being posted to that duty. With any brawling resulting in a six month disqualification from subsequent consideration. But really, Jan, you do not think our men would actually go so far as –?”

“Martin, I will not balance the safety of the English ladies who visit — or perhaps, in the future, seek shelter with — us on my projections or hopes. We will assume the worst. And in the bargain, some lucky guards will come near enough to recall that ladies do, indeed, sweat — excuse me, perspire — in this weather. That they are not such perfect creatures, after all.” Van Walbeeck squinted as the light rose sharply on the table before them. The sun had finally peeked around the steep slope of the volcanic cone that was known simply as The Quill, St. Eustatia’s most prominent feature

“Hmm. It is still the scent of a woman, Jan. And in circumstances such as ours, that will only quicken their starved ardor.”

“No doubt, and no helping it. But charged with protecting the fairer sex, I feel fairly certain that our guards would more willingly die defending them than protecting me.”

“Far more willing,” drawled Tromp,

“While you are around,” smiled Walbeeck, “I shall never lose my soul to the sin of Pride. You are my guardian angel.”

“A more improbable guardian angel there has never been,” Tromp grunted as he felt the sunlight grow quick and warm on the side of his face.

“And yet here you sit, wearing a halo!” Walbeeck grinned, gesturing to the sun behind Tromp. “Now, have you decided to stop serving coffee on this sorry hull of yours?”

“Not yet,” said Tromp, who almost smiled.

*     *     *

Two hours later, the coronet pealed again. Tromp frowned at Walbeeck’s sudden and serious glance at the rum.

“Just one swallow. For perseverance in the face of immovable objects and irremediable ignorance.”

“Jan, don’t reinforce our enemies’ characterization of us.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean. Our resolve in battle is too often linked to our bolting shots of gin just before. ‘Dutch courage,’ they call it.”

“Well, I could use a little of that courage right about now…”

The dreaded knock on the door was gentle enough but felt like a death knell to Tromp. “Enter,” he said, trying to keep the sigh out of his voice. He flattered himself to imagine that he had succeeded.

The group that entered was not quite as ominously monolithic as he had feared. There were friendly faces among those crowding into the Aemelia‘s suddenly claustrophobic great cabin. Servatius Carpentier and “Phipps” Serooskereken had been part of the Politieke Raad at Recife, and early converts to the exigency-driven agricultural changes that they had brought to St. Eustatia. But Jehan De Bruyne, also a member of that body, had been diametrically opposed from the start, and remained so, now drawing support from original Oranjestad settlers such as Jan Haet and Hans Musen, whose expectations of quick wealth had been dashed by the arrival of Tromp’s ships and slavery injunctions.

Respectful nods notwithstanding, Musen was quick to confirm both the purpose and tenor of this visit by the determinative civil bodies of the St. Eustatia colony. “Admiral Tromp, we are sorry to disturb you on this busy day –”

– not half as sorry as I am —

“– but we have just learned that you will be setting sail soon. Today, it is rumored.”

Tromp shrugged. “There are always rumors. Please continue.”

Musen looked annoyed. “Very well. Since no one seems to know, or is willing to say, when you might return, we must make an appeal now, relevant to upcoming matters of commercial importance.”

Tromp had had cannon aimed at him with less certainty of fell purpose. “Yes?”

“Admiral, you have forbidden the acquisition of new slaves with which to work the plantations here on St. Eustatia –”

“– which we still protest!” Jan Haet put in archly.

“– but we presume that this would not apply to any farms established on land that is not Dutch-owned.”

Tromp resisted the urge to grind his molars. And damn me for a fool that I did not see this coming. “Mr. Musen, allow me to prevent you from spending time here profitlessly. The rules that apply here on Saint Eustatia apply equally to any plantations you may put in place on Saint Christopher’s.”

“But that is English land!” shouted Jan Haet.

“But under our dominion while we lease it!” retorted Phipps Serooskereken.

“Immaterial,” countered Musen coolly. “The terms of use permitted on the tracts around Sandy Point were made quite explicitly by Lord Warner: use of slaves is expressly permitted.”

Jan van Walbeeck smiled broadly, and perhaps a bit wickedly. “Then perhaps you are preparing to swear loyalty to Thomas Warner?”

The various combatants started at him.

“Because, logically, that is what you must intend.”

Jan Haet, as ardent a Dutch nationalist as he was a slaveholder, rose up to his full height of 5′ 5″. “I intend no such thing, and you know it, Jan van Walbeeck!”

“Do I? Here is what I know. Fact: Lord Warner may no longer be a Lord at all. England has renounced claim to the land he holds and upon which his title is based. Fact: your actions are not constrained by what he permits, but by what this regional authority allows you to do, as a Dutchman, in this place and time. And you have been forbidden from acquiring more slaves. So unless you wish to renounce your citizenship in the United Provinces, what Thomas Warner permits you to do is secondary to what your government permits. And fact: swearing allegiance to Warner makes you men without a country and therefore invalidates you from working the leased land at Sandy Point, since that agreement exists solely between the representatives of the United Provinces and Thomas Warner.” Jan Walbeeck smiled. “But of course, you can always become citizens of Thomas Warner’s nation. If he ever declares one, that is.”

Jehan de Bruyne had been frowning slightly at the deck throughout the exchange. “I will ask you to reconsider your ruling on slavery one last time, Martin. I am not sure you understand the degree of dissatisfaction it is causing among our people.”

Oh, I understand Jehan. I even understand the veiled threat in your calm tone. Tromp folded his hands. “Mijn Heer de Bruyne, your own council, the Politieke Raad, voted in support of this measure. And I remain unclear how you can conclude that a slave population poses no credible threat to our security here. You have only to look at Thomas Warner’s experience. In the last seven years, he has had to struggle to maintain control over his colony. And why? Not threat from the Caribs: they are no longer appear willing to try cases with him. No, his problems arise from resentment and rebelliousness among his slave population.”

Musen sniffed. “That is because the French keep stirring the pot.”

“That may even be true, Hans, but would we be immune to such trouble? Will the French see us as any less interlopers than the English? Indeed, given the presence of our forces on the island, will they not consider us an even greater problem? Because once we arrive and provide both plantation and border security for Thomas Warner, they will have even less chance to displace him — and us. Unless, that is, we bring our own slaves, whom they would no doubt attempt to suborn as well.”

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 12

Trial By Fire – Snippet 12

“Wrong question. The right question is, what do we not want to see? Answer: we absolutely do not want to see a second wave of drones that are moving more slowly, because those could retroboost and come back for us. We don’t want their main hulls to retroboost either, or even slow down, because that means they’re willing to make sure that they’ve finished business out here, even if that delays them in their push to The Pearl. And no small craft. They’d be the worst, because whereas a big hull usually can’t loiter because it’s been tasked with key strategic objectives, smaller craft are more likely to be sent on more generalized patrol or picket missions. And that’s my biggest worry: that they leave behind a sloop or a frigate to sift through the junk that used to be our ships, trying to gather technical intelligence.”

“How’s the rest of our side doing?”

“I can’t tell. When Hazawa shut down power, our tight-beam gimballing servos went offline. But that’s not a big loss. I think the niceties of lascom are about to become a thing of the past.”

“Because they’re going to be hitting The Pearl soon?”

“Yes, which will whack the snot out of precision communications. Not that The Pearl wants to talk with us anymore, anyway. They’ll have cleared their tracking and comm arrays to maintain redundant C4I with our effective fleet elements. And we no longer qualify as such. We’re on our own, for now.”

Caine was oddly silent. Trevor looked up, discovered that he was staring intently at the passive scan plot. “Trevor, what do you think that might be?”

Trevor followed Caine’s extended index finger to the thermal bloom that marked the drive of the approaching alien main hull–except now it was trailed by two small pinpricks, one of which was dropping behind very rapidly.

“That?” Trevor rubbed his eyes but could still see the decelerating pinprick. “That’s trouble.”

*   *   *

And, thirty minutes later, it still was. Caine was looking at the shining mote that was now plainly visible at the center of their view screen. “Still coming toward us?”

“Yep. It’s ignored the wreckage of the frigate.” Something’s wrong here. Trevor tapped his collarcom. “Lieutenant, are you sure our power plant is cold?”

Hazawa sounded more collected than he had when, twenty minutes earlier, the main attacking vessel had virtually grazed their hull at two hundred kilometers range. “Fusion is offline sir.”

“And we’re not the only transponder in the water?”

“No, sir. Four others in our area alone.” Hazawa’s voice rose slightly. “Sir, this small enemy craft–it’s getting awful close, two hundred klicks and still retroboosting. Now maneuvering to match vectors with us.” Hazawa’s voice tightened. “Sir, if they close to within fifty klicks, my orders clearly stipulate that I must take them under fire. And if they attempt to board, I must–”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Trevor turned to Caine, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the craft’s now visible outline. “How long?” he asked.

“That they’ll be alongside us in three or four minutes, tops. But how did they come straight to us?”

Caine looked out at the debris-field, most of it just winking bits of distant, rolling scrap metal, a few close enough that their tattered outlines were visible. He shook his head. “It doesn’t make any sense. We are in slightly better shape than the remains of the closest fleet auxiliary, the San Marin, but she’s a bigger hull, and so should be more interesting to them. I think they’d be eager to get a look at the contents of a tender with half of her lading intact.”

Hazawa’s voice was slightly tremulous over the shipwide. “All personnel, all sections: watch personnel to the weapons lockers to distribute sidearms. Stand by to repel boarders. Enemy craft at one hundred kilometers.”

Repel boarders? In space? It was too ludicrous to imagine, but it was about to happen. The enemy craft, a rounded body bloated by a large number of fuel tanks and furnished with a sharp, inquisitive prow, kept approaching. The proximity alarm triggered automatically, set up a shipwide ululation which underscored Hazawa’s order: “PDF battery: acquire target.”

Trevor rose. “Okay, so no one has any idea how they found us. Any thoughts about–?”

Caine turned quickly. “Trevor, our distress signal: will it be the same as the type emitted by, let’s say, the frigate?”

“Yeah, except it’ll be a lot longer. The frigate is a single hull: one registry code. But this ship carries modules, each of which has its own registry.”

“So all the registries of all the carried modules are transmitted along with that of the carrier?”

“Yeah, they’re appended to the end of the basic transponder signal. That way, if there’s a wreck, rescue teams can figure out if any of the modules are missing, or–”

“And how does the cutter’s transponder know the registry of all the modules?”

“Well, as long as they’re attached, it polls their individual registry chips, and–”

Caine shook his head and interrupted. “Trevor, you changed our habmod’s registry, right before the attack, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. Since we’re just civvie diplomats again, I had to change the module’s designation from military to–” Trevor stopped. “Oh, Christ.”

Caine nodded. “You changed it to a diplomatic code.”

Hazawa’s voice announced, “Enemy craft closing through fifty kilometers. Stand by to–” Static surged over his last order.

Trevor felt a flash of hot moisture rise on his brow. He slapped his collarcom, noticed that the cutter’s PDF pod had powered up. “So the attackers think–”

“–that we’re flying a diplomatic pennon: a white flag. One of their commo officers must know how to read our data streams and noticed it embedded in either the transponder code, the distress signal, or both.”

Trevor nodded. “Lieutenant Hazawa, please respond.” Nothing. Where the hell–?

And just as Hazawa responded–sounding both more confident, relieved, and excited–the bridge back-chatter confirmed what Trevor saw happening on his subsystem activity monitor. Behind Hazawa’s energetic, “Yes, Captain?” was a whoop that almost drowned out the background report that Trevor dreaded hearing. “Direct hit on the enemy ship, sir. The bogey is venting atmosphere and angling away erratically. Reacquiring–”

“No, Lieutenant!” Trevor shouted into his static-ridden collarcom. “Stand down, stand–!”

Hazawa’s “Say again?” vied with another excited report. “Multiple hits in her stern, sir. She’s corkscrewing badly. I think we hit her engines–”

“Cease fire, cease–!” Trevor was shouting, when Caine’s hand came down hard on his shoulder. Trevor yanked away. “What?”

Caine’s voice was eerily calm. “We’ve got to detach.”

“What the hell are you–?”

“We’ve got only seconds now. What’s the procedure?”

Detach? What the hell was Caine talking abou–?

And then Trevor saw two new bogeys light up, one only one hundred twenty klicks away.

Caine nodded toward the two red triangles. “The enemy left drones laying doggo out here. And we’ve just made ourselves a target.”

The EM emission sensor shrilled throughout the cutter.

“They’ve acquired and locked. Trevor–”

Not even the time to say goodbye to Hazawa. What a shitty business this is–Trevor pulled open a red cover to his lower left, grabbed the recessed handle, turned it sharply to the left so that he could pull it straight up. And did so.

The blast of the emergency jettisoning charges–only twelve feet behind them–was deafening as the hab mod blew itself away from the cutter’s keel. Caine lost the grip on his seat, spiraled off at an angle, slammed into a bulkhead, and floated free: stunned, unconscious, or dead.

The external viewing screen showed a slowly somersaulting image of the crippled cutter, now bookended by two explosions in rapid succession, one at the bow and one in the stern. Modules and pieces of her went cartwheeling in all directions. Trevor saw another flash back in the engine decks: a small secondary, back near the containment rings. Meaning that any second now–

Trevor scooped his feet under him so that they were on the seat, twisted and kicked off toward Caine. He cinched him around the waist as he passed, bumped to an awkward but fast stop, reverse kicked. He regained the acceleration couch, pulled Caine on top of him, pulled a strap across them both–

–just as the cutter’s engine decks erupted outwards into a sudden, angry, blue-white star.

The screen blanked the same instant that the shock wave hit.

 

Trial By Fire – Snippet 11

Trial By Fire – Snippet 11

Chapter Six

Outbound from Barnard’s Star 2 C

Trevor resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. What do I think? I think you’re a civilian who’s been turned into a toy soldier. I think that sometimes you’re too damned smart for your own good–but thank God we’ve got you on our side. I think it pisses me off that the woman I’m always thinking about is in love with you, not me. “I think your idea is just crazy enough that it might work.”

Caine nodded slowly. “Can you talk Hazawa into it?”

Hazawa: another contestant in today’s Amateur Hour Follies. “Probably, but it’ll be faster if I just take command–”

Trevor had not expected Caine to interrupt, but he did. “Which means you’d have to self-activate out of reserve and take the conn.”

“So?”

“So, you might want to retain your current civilian status and stay here in Auxiliary Command. Just in case this craziness doesn’t work out.”

“You mean, in case we’re captured? Well, yeah,” he admitted, “you’ve got a point. So”–he checked his watch–”we’ve got about a minute before things get lively. Get on your collarcom with Hazawa. Explain your idea quickly and convey my recommendation that he follows it.”

“I should call?”

“Yes, you. If something happens to me, he’s got to know to listen to you, too. He’s too green to know that you don’t know half of what you’re talking about.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, Trevor.”

“Don’t mention it. Get going. I’ve got some real work to do.”

As Caine started explaining his idea–and rank–to Hazawa, Trevor reconsidered the cutter’s own passive scan plot, and the composite data being relayed from the CINCBARCOMCEN radio shack on Barney Deucy. Half of the Pearl’s deep space battle group was now retroboosting to maintain distance. The other half–all lighter ships–had adjusted course and piled on the plasma, evidently trying to three-dimensionally cross the T ahead of the enemy’s main body, albeit at a rather steep angle. Perduro had adopted a reasonable two-tier strategy. She would hold one of her groups back to duel with the enemy heavies as long as possible, perhaps showing their heels if the shift carriers got far enough away that the Arat Kur couldn’t catch them anymore. The other part of Perduro’s force was probably going to seed mines and sleeper drones–maybe even a few of the nuke-pumped, X-ray-laser ship-killers–in the path of the enemy. Which would present the invaders with Hobson’s choice. Slow down to optimize scans and minimize damage from the autonomous and remote-controlled munitions deployed by the closer, lighter battle group; or rush through that kill zone in an attempt to close quickly with the heavier, but more distant, main fleet elements. Either way, there was a chance that significant parts of Perduro’s flotilla would survive to fight again another day.

Or maybe not. As Trevor started reading the transponder tail numbers on the fleet plot, he wondered if there was a computer malfunction. Half of the missile frigates, including the one drawing near their crippled cutter, were of the “Spear” class, the last of the fission-drive buckets. Now officially reserve vessels, they had been shipped to The Pearl for training purposes. What the hell were they doing on the line? In fact, only Perduro’s flagship–the President-class cruiser Jefferson–was a truly modern ship. Goddamnit, where are all the–?

The cutter shuddered slightly.

Caine, just finishing with Hazawa, looked over. “Were we hit, or–?”

Trevor checked the plot. The blue triangle that denoted the tanker Baton Rouge faded away. “No, Caine; that was the farewell song of a nearby ship. From the look of it, hit by another shot from their lead ship. Did Hazawa go for the plan?”

“Yep, he’s got the distress signals on now. And it looks like he’ll have the preignition toroid repaired in a few minutes. He’s taken the plant offline, so we’re on battery backup and looking pretty dead. Just for good measure, he vented a little coolant from the starboard ignition chamber.”

“So it looks like we’ve got a radiation leak, too. Nice touch. Hazawa’s idea?”

Caine was silent, staring at the sensor plots.

Trevor smiled. Of course it wasn’t Hazawa’s idea.

Caine leaned closer to the plots. “Where are their drones?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing. They should have opened up by now.”

“Hell, if they’re traveling under their own power, we should have seen some thermal signatures on our own passive sensors, right?”

Trevor frowned. “Well, if they were our drones, yes. But the invaders could have some stealth capabilities that–” Caine looked like he wanted to say something, but suppressed it. Trevor sighed. “Okay, spill it.”

“Trevor, do you know of any way to conceal high-temperature exhaust in space?”

“No.”

“I don’t either. I can’t even think of how you’d do that. But instead, what they could have done was–” And then Caine was on his feet. “The ships near us. Send them a warning. They’re going to get hit point blank–in minutes, maybe seconds.”

“What? How the–?”

“If the invaders’ technology is both better and more compact, they’ve got more uncommitted hull volume to play with.”

“So?”

“So, they could build in big mass drivers to launch their drones. So if they shifted in and the drones were launched immediately, we wouldn’t see them because they’re just inert metal traveling towards us at god-knows-how-many gees. But when they get close enough–”

Trevor completed the sentence as he put his hand on the open comms. “They go active at point blank range, firing and evading while they’re in among us. And then they continue right on through us to serve as the advance strike force against the Pearl. Where they’ll cause just enough havoc to further delay any evacuation.” Trevor’s finger was poised above the “send” relays, ready to broadcast in the clear–but he took his hand back. Slowly. And felt like a murderer as he did it.

“Trevor, what are you–?”

“You said it yourself, Caine. We’ve got to follow orders. We’ve got to get out of here and report. If those drones are close by, and if we go active–if we even juice up the tight beam laser relays–we’re likely to be vaporized before we can send.”

And then it didn’t matter. Without having to listen to Hazawa’s nervous sitreps, it became quite evident that their theory was horribly correct. The nearby ships started taking crippling damage from drones that popped up on their sensors at only two and three thousand kilometers range, making targeted strikes on engineering sections, missile bays, sensor arrays. Secondary explosions of munitions and fuel were reported on every hull.

Trevor had only heard one thing like it before: when he had been coordinating the ROV oversight for a combined Spetznaz-SEAL operation that ran into an ambush in Uzbekistan. The casualties came so thick and fast that there was no time to think, to reconfigure the mission, to plan an extraction. It was like listening to an announcer doing play-by-play for a demolition derby. He had only been able to hope that, at the end of that litany of destruction and death, someone–anyone–would be left alive. That hope had been forlorn.

So it was here, too. The missile frigate was the first hit–naturally–and her skipper evidently knew he didn’t have much time left; he salvoed his bays in the direction of the enemy’s lead ship. He unloaded sixty percent of his ordnance before Trevor’s passive sensors registered a split-second, white-hot thermal bloom where the frigate had been a moment before. Then the invaders’ drones picked off the much slower human drones and their control sloop. Finally, the remaining enemy craft tumbled so they could keep firing at the human auxiliaries which were now aft of them as they kept arrowing toward The Pearl.

Hazawa’s somber voice broke the extended silence “We have the toroid back online, sirs.”

Trevor rubbed his brow. “Which, ironically, makes us the most intact and capable ship in this entire sector.”

Caine frowned. “How long do you think we should wait?”

“Before trying to make a getaway? Depends on what I see here in the next fifteen minutes.” Trevor tapped the proximity passive sensor sweep.

“What do we want to see?”

 

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 39

1636: Commander Cantrell in the West Indies – Snippet 39

“I am more informed than I would have been had I hurried to be on time,” retorted van Walbeeck with his trademark impish grin. He pulled up a chair and sat, heavy hands folded and cherubic smile sending creases across his expansive cheeks. Full-faced for a man of thirty-five, his jowls were apparently not subject to privations in the same way the rest of his now-lean body was. He, along with the other three thousand refugees from Recife, had narrowly avoided the specter of starvation over the past year. But somehow, van Walbeeck still had his large, florid jowls.

Tromp waited and then sighed. “Very well, I will ask: and what additional information did your tardiness vouchsafe?”

“I tarried on deck to exchange a few pleasantries with your first mate, Kees Evertsen. While there, a Bermuda sloop made port. Down from Bahamas, freighting our neighbors’ sugar for relay to Bermuda. And as chance would have it, one of our most notable neighbors was on board.”

Tromp frowned. By ‘neighbors,’ van Walbeeck meant the English on St. Christopher’s island, which was already visible as a dawn-lit land mass out the admiral’s south-facing stern windows. A ‘notable visitor,’ meant the person was not of the very first order of importance, so it was not the governor, Sir Thomas Warner himself. Indeed, the “Sir” part of Warner’s title was somewhat in doubt. Technically, shortly before the League of Ostend arose, Charles Stuart of England had ceded all his New World possessions to Richelieu. Or so the French maintained. And it was probably close to, or the very, fact. The English crown’s protest over that interpretation was, to put it lightly, muted. However, the popular English outcry over losing its New World possessions had grown intense enough to propel the already paranoid Charles into a dubious course of instituting loyalty oaths and a standing, special court for the investigation and hearing of purported cases of sedition.

So was Thomas Warner’s patent of nobility still effective, his governorship still legal? Not under the aegis of English law, but until someone took the island from him, the dispute was pointless. And given how these uncertain times required his full attention and involvement in the well-being of his now isolated colony, Tromp would have been surprised had he been the visitor to St. Eustatia. But there was another likely candidate. “Lt. Governor Jeafferson?”

“Bravo, Martin! Your powers of deduction are undiminished. It was Jeafferson himself on the sloop, which must have left St. Christopher’s in the dark of the night to be here so early. And you know what that means –”

Tromp sighed. Jan van Walbeeck was arguably the single smartest, most capable man he had ever met, and he had met plenty of them. But his irrepressible ebullience — even at this hour of the morning — was sometimes a bit wearing for, well, normal people like himself. “Yes, Jan, I think I do. He’s here to finalize and sign our five-year lease of the lands around Sandy Point.”

“Exactly. And thereby kill two birds with one stone: we get the arable land we need, and Thomas Warner gets the guards he wants. And frankly, we need to reduce the number of soldiers we have here on St. Eustatia.”

Tromp laid aside his protractor and looked up from his charts. “And you feel certain this will not bring us into conflict with the French colony on the island?”

Van Walbeeck blew out his cheeks. “Who is certain of anything, Martin? Indeed, who can say who will hold power over us, or these islands, when the lease is up in five years? But this much is true. The French had only one ship arrive last year, and that was before we arrived. As best we can tell, Warner’s colony has grown to almost nine thousand, maybe more. The French have barely a tenth of that. So I think that it is unlikely there will be any trouble.”

Tromp frowned. “So then, if that is true, I ask — as I have before — why is Warner so concerned with having our guards? What are we not seeing — and he not saying?”

Van Walbeeck nodded. “I think I have a little more perspective on that, now that our farmers and his farmers are talking with each other on a regular basis. Firstly, Warner has all his people gainfully employed, and most in food production of one sort or another. Would that we could say the same. So the same people who man his militia are also the only ones available to oversee the workers and the plantations.”

“You mean, guard and drive his slaves.”

“Martin, I know how you feel about slavery, and I share those feelings, but these are the conditions as we found them, and the best we can do is work to change them. And it won’t be easy, given the tales our planters are telling his.”

Tromp stared at his charts, at the outline of St. Christopher’s. “I can only imagine. Our decision to prohibit slaveholding has not made me a popular man.”

“You? You?” Jan leaned forward. “Martin, you are not the president of the Politieke Raad. You don’t have our planters screaming for your blood. Well, not so loudly as for mine, at any rate.”

“And Corselles is still no help?”

“How can he be? I frankly feel sorry for the poor fellow. He arrived here with maybe two hundred and fifty souls, all of whom were assured that they will grow rich like the English planters. Which meant, in short hand, that they will own plantations and the slaves that allow the land to be worked at such a fabulous profit.

“And then, just a year after they arrive, we descend upon them like a horde of locusts, almost three thousand strong, ninety percent young or young-ish males, short on rations, and with our military leadership determined to eliminate slavery. Which was what pushed almost half of our farmers into league with their farmers.”

Tromp nodded. “And this connects to Warner’s want for our guards — how?”

Jan sighed. “Let us presume that he does indeed see that our survival may be the key to his, and vice versa. We are both without support from our homelands, albeit for very different reasons. But if we hang on to Saint Eustatia long enough, we’ll start seeing flags from our home ports. At that point, the advantage is ours. For Warner is a man without a country. So, while he still enjoys the advantage of being our breadbasket, he will naturally wish to enter into accords with us which will stand him in good stead when that balance of power shifts. And his power is in the food he makes, so he is not eager to have his overseers as his full-time militiamen. Food production will drop and with it, his fortunes.”

Tromp looked up from the map. “That seems to track true, yes.”

“Ah, but there’s more, Martin. He doesn’t just want guards; he wants our guards. Dutch guards.”

“Why? Are we Dutch especially good at guarding things? Even things that do not belong to us?”

“No, but our guards operate under the aegis of our flag. So if the French try cases with them –”

“Yes, of course. Then there is an international incident. And since Warner is no longer in charge of an ‘English’ colony, he has no such protection of his own.”

“Precisely. The only thing that give the French pause about running Warner off the island is the question of whether or not they can physically achieve it. But if his colony’s guards are our men, with the flag of Orange flying above, the French risk a war. And if there is anything we have an over-abundance of in this area, it is soldiers.”

“Yes, but Warner seems to be acquiring their services far earlier than he needs to. He has little to worry about from such a small French colony.”

Van Walbeeck shook his head. “Except that the French colonists are not the direct threat. It is the dissent they have been successful at breeding among the English slaves, and some of the indentured workers from Ireland. And there is rumor that the French commander d’Esnambuc has been parleying with the natives as well. The Kalinago still want St. Christopher’s back, you know.”

Tromp stood. “Very well. So Warner wants our guards. When will the lease go into effect?”

“It will still be a few months, at least. Our people are eager to put the tracts around Sandy Point under cultivation, but it will take time to get them ready, to gather the equipment, to settle affairs here. And the same goes for determining which troops shall go.”

Tromp shook his head. “Since we are so close — a morning’s sail — there is no reason to make our forces on St. Christopher a fixed garrison. We shall rotate troops through the station, as we shall their commanders. I want our people to both know that island and to get a break from this one.”