“D’you know who I am, Major?” The major took a second look, eyes widening a bit as the green uniform registered, but shook his head.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t matter, sir. We’re in the midst of a Class One security alert, and—“
“Major, you listen to me closely. I am Sir Arthur Keita, Brigadier, Imperial Cadre, and one of my people may be involved in your alert.” The major swallowed visibly at the name, and Ben Belkassem smiled. Sir Arthur hadn’t even raised his voice, but the inspector had wondered what he sounded like when he decided to bite someone’s head off. “Now you get Colonel Tigh, Major,” Keita continued in that same, flat voice, “and you do it now.”
“Yessir!”
The screen blanked, then relit almost instantly with the face of Colonel Arturo Tigh. The colonel looked just as worried as the major, but he hid it better and managed to produce a tight smile.
“I’m always honored to hear from you, Sir Arthur, but I’m afraid—“
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Colonel, but I need to know what’s happening out there.”
“We don’t know, sir. We— Is this a secure channel?” Keita nodded, and the colonel shrugged. “We don’t know what’s going on. We had a major security breach two hours ago, and things have been going crazy ever since.”
“Security breach?” Keita’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of breach?”
“Somebody hijacked a forward recon skimmer—at least we assume it was hijacked, though we haven’t been able to turn up a missing vehicle report on it yet—and crashed through Gate Twelve. The automatics gave it a transponder clearance, but then the gate sentries—“ The colonel looked like a man eating green persimmons. “Sir Arthur, they say they never saw it. Every alert on the base went off when it crossed the sensor threshold, but ten different people, all of them good, reliable types, say they never saw a thing.” He paused, as if awaiting Keita’s snort of disbelief, but the brigadier only grunted and nodded for him to continue.
“Well, the inner sensor net started tracking immediately, and the duty officer scrambled a pair of sting ships while the ready skimmers went in pursuit, but that was one hell of a pilot. He never brought his own weapons on line, but we’ve got fires all over the western ring access route—all from misses from the pursuit force, as far as I can tell—and then the skimmer went straight up like a missile and the stingers nailed it with HVW.”
“The pilot?” Keita demanded harshly, and the colonel shrugged.
“We assumed he was still aboard, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, no one saw him abandon the vehicle, so he ought to’ve been aboard, but then this other thing came up, and I just can’t believe it’s a coincidence.”
“What other thing, Colonel?”
“Something’s gone haywire with one of our ships, sir. One of our ships, hell! We’ve got a brand new alpha synth boosting for the outer system at max without clearance or orders.”
“Who’s on board?” Keita’s strained face was suddenly white.
“That’s just it,” Tigh said almost desperately. “As far as we know, no one’s on board. It wasn’t even due to impress until ten hundred hours!”
“Vishnu!” Keita whispered. He wrenched his eyes away from the screen to stare at Ben Belkassem, and the inspector shrugged. The brigadier turned back to the colonel. “Have you tried to raise it?”
“Of course. We’re trying right now, but we’re getting damn-all back.”
Keita closed his eyes in pain, then straightened his shoulders.
“Colonel,” he said very quietly, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to destroy that ship.”
“Are you crazy?!” Tigh blurted, then swallowed. “Sir,” he went on in a more controlled voice, “we’re talking about an alpha synth. That ship costs thirty billion credits. I can’t—I mean, no one groundside can authorize—“
“I can,” Keita grated, and the colonel’s face froze as he realized just who, and what, he was speaking to.
“Sir, I’ll still have to give the port admiral a reason.”
“Very well. Tell him I have reason to believe his ship has been hijacked by Captain Alicia DeVries, Imperial Cadre, for purposes unknown.”
“A Cadrewoman?” Tigh stared at Keita. “I don’t— Sir, I don’t even know if that’s possible! Was she checked out on cyber synth?”
“No, and it doesn’t matter. Captain DeVries has been hospitalized for observation since the Mathison’s World Raid. She’s demonstrated . . . unstable and delusionary behavior,” Keita’s hands clenched out of the screen pickup’s field, as if his words cost him physical pain, but his voice held level, “and unknown but highly—I repeat, Colonel, highly—unusual and unpredictable capabilities no one can account for. We have evidence that she’s already reactivated her own augmentation without hardware support and despite three levels of security lockouts, not to mention her apparent ability to hijack the skimmer to which you referred. Given that, I believe it’s entirely possible she’s somehow penetrated your security and managed to steal that ship, and if she has—“ The brigadier paused and steeled himself.
“If she has, she must be considered deranged and highly dangerous.”
“Dear God.” Tigh was even whiter than Keita had been. “The only way she could even move it is through the alpha synth. That means she must’ve made impression, and if she’s crazy—!”
His voice had risen steadily as the awful possibility registered, and now he spun away from the screen and started shouting for the port admiral.
<I believe they’ve made up their minds about us,> the AI remarked, and Alicia nodded tightly. The tick still trembled in her blood—she didn’t dare waste time vomiting just now—and every excruciating second was an eternity. No one had seemed to notice for perhaps a minute, and the first attempt to do anything about it had been limited to efforts to access the ship’s remotes.
Even if the AI hadn’t been prepared to ignore them, they would have been fruitless. Tisiphone had wiped the telemetry programming early on in her struggle with the computer, but Groundside hadn’t realized that. They’d gone on trying to access with ever increasing desperation for five full minutes, during which the alpha synth’s velocity had climbed to over a hundred KPS. Then all access attempts had stopped and silence had reigned for several minutes. By the time the first effort to raise Alicia by name came in, the alpha synth was up to over two hundred KPS—and a visibly-shrinking Soissons lay over fifty thousand kilometers astern.
Alicia had listened to the com without response, perfectly willing to let them dither while she watched through her sensors, wrapped in fascination and a sort of manic delight, and she and her—allies? symbiotes? delusions?—perpetrated the greatest single-handed theft in the history of mankind. But the voices on the other end of the com link were changing as Groundside got itself together, and now a new, crisp speaker was on the line.
“Captain DeVries, this is Port Admiral Marat. I order you to decelerate and heave to immediately. If you refuse to comply, you will leave me no choice but to consider you a hostile vessel. Respond at once.”
<They sound a bit upset,> the AI observed. <Ha! Look at that>
A mental finger guided Alicia’s attention to the blue fireflies of a dozen cruisers’ suddenly activated Fasset drives in Soisson’s orbit and data on their capabilities slotted into her brain. It was an incredible sensation, completely different from an assault shuttle’s instrumentation.
<How bad is it?>
<What about their weapons?>
<They’re some threat,> the AI admitted, <but I’m not too worried. My data on their fire control isn’t complete, but I know enough to screw their accuracy to
hell. They’ll have quite a while to shoot—maximum beam range is about fifteen light-seconds, and half-charge energy torps have about five more LS of reach—but they’re going to be lousy shots.>
<Great, but I think you left something out—like missiles.>
<So? Cruisers are too small to mount SLAMs. Their Hauptman coil missiles have an effective range of about ten light-minutes, but the best they can reach before burn-out is point-six-cee. Then they go ballistic, and there’s no way one cruiser flotilla’s gonna saturate my defenses.>
<You would appear to value yourself highly, Machine.> Tisiphone sounded so sour Alicia almost suspected she’d like to see the ship destroyed just to put the AI in its place, but she continued levelly, <Still, the capabilities you describe accord well with what I have learned of your kind.>
<Thanks for the compliment, even if it did sound like pulling teeth.>
<How long will they be able to engage us?> Alicia asked hastily.
<Well, we’ve got a quarter LS lead on them now, and we’ll go on opening it at forty-three KPS squared till we hit Soissons’s Powell limit and I can really start opening up. They’ll be point-seven-oh-three LS back when we hit the curb, which gives us ten minutes at thirteen hundred gravities—call it an edge of twelve-point-five KPS squared—while they’re still poking along at thirty-one-point-seven Gs, and we’ll still better than double their acceleration even after they cross the curb. That means we’ll open the range to eight-point-two light-seconds before they get up to half our acceleration and draw entirely out of beam range in another thirteen-point-three minutes. They’ll lose energy torpedo range three-point-nine minutes after that. Call the beam envelope twenty-two minutes from now and the torpedo envelope twenty-six, but their missiles’ll have the range for two more hours.>
<What about the fixed defenses? They’ve got SLAMs, and we’ve got to get past both rings on this course.>
<Phooey on the fixed defenses!> the AI snorted, and Alicia winced.
<I hope you’re not being over-confident,> she suggested in her most tactful mental tone, tracing their projected course through the ship’s sensors. The AI wasn’t even trying to avoid the orbital forts—it was headed straight towards them, directly across the system’s ecliptic. The inner ring, the true core of Soisson’s defenses, orbited the planet at three hundred thousand kilometers, right on the edge of Soissons’s Powell limit. The far sparser ring of outer forts were placed halfway to the star’s Powell limit, forty-two light-minutes from the primary—and SLAMs had a maximum effective range of thirty-seven light-minutes. At their projected rate of acceleration, they’d reach the outer works in two and a half hours, and both fortress rings could engage them the whole way. Even after they passed the outermost fort, it could hold them under fire for several hours. That was a lot of engagement time, and Alicia would vastly have preferred to boost perpendicular to Franconia’s ecliptic and open the range as quickly as possible.
<You just think that’s a better idea, Alley,> the AI informed her, following her thoughts with almost frightening ease. <If I try that, I expose our stern to the fire of every unit in the inner ring while we’re still moving slowly, and the drive mass is out in front, remember? It doesn’t offer any protection to fire from astern. This course uses the planet to block a good chunk of the inner defenses and interposes the drive against fire from the outer ring while we close. Besides, I’d have to decelerate, reorient, and accelerate all over again to put us on the right wormhole vector for our destination, and Admiral Gomez is out here somewhere on maneuvers. I don’t know where, but I’d rather not spend fourteen additional hours mucking around sublight and give her time to work out an interception.>
<Are you sure about that? She’s got less firepower than the forts.>
<Sure, but her dreadnoughts all have cyber synths and the legs to stay in range of us for a long time— maybe as long as ten or twelve hours if they hit their interception solution just right. I don’t have enough data on her fire control to guarantee I could outsmart that many AIs long enough to pull away from her, but I’ve got all the specs on the forts’ fire control. They’re overdue to refit with new generation cyber synths, too, which means their present AIs are a lot dumber than a dreadnought’s. They won’t even see us.>
<And even if they hit us,> Tisiphone observed, <they will find us most difficult to injure, will they not, Machine?>
<I’m getting kinda tired of that “Machine” business, but, yeah. They don’t have anything smaller than a SLAM that could stop me, Alley. Trust me.>
<I don’t have much choice. But—>
The pursuing cruisers had spread out to bring their batteries to bear past the blind spots created by their own Fasset drives, and the first fire spat after the fleeing alpha synth. The percentage of hits should have been high at such absurdly low range, but the attackers were hopelessly outclassed. Nothing smaller than a battle-cruiser mounted a cyber synth, and even a cyber synth AI would have been out of its league against an alpha synth. Alicia’s other half could play evasion games a mere synth link couldn’t even imagine, far less emulate, and its battle screen was incomparably more powerful than anything else its size.
Its other defenses were on the same scale, and it deployed decoys while jammers hashed the cruisers’ fire control sensors. Lasers and particle beams splattered all about them, but less than two percent scored hits, and the ship’s screen shrugged them aside contemptuously.
Energy torpedoes followed the beams, packets of plasma scorching in at near light-speed, and the range was low enough the attackers could overload the normal parameters of their torpedoes’ electro-magnetic “envelopes,” more than doubling their nominal effect. Not even the AI had time to track weapons moving at that speed, but it could detect the peaking power emissions just before they launched, and unlike missiles, they were direct fire weapons, with no ability to home or evade. The alpha synth’s defenses were designed to handle such attacks from capital ships; cruisers simply didn’t mount the generators for more than a very few launchers each, and stern-mounted autocannon spat out brief, precise bursts as each torpedo blossomed. It didn’t take much of a solid object to rupture the skin of an energy torpedo traveling at ninety-eight percent of light-speed, and the alpha synth’s ever mounting velocity left the resultant explosions harmlessly astern.
Missiles were another story.
Every attempt to adapt the Hauptman effect to manned vessels had come up against two insurmountable difficulties: an active Hauptman coil poured out a torrent of radiation instantly fatal to all known forms of life, and unlike the Fasset drive, it played fair with Newton. Despite their prodigious rates of acceleration, Fasset drive ships were, in effect, in a perpetual state of free-fall “into” their black holes, and while artificial gravity could produce a comfortable sense of up and down aboard a normal starship, no counter-grav system yet had been able to cope with the thirty-thousand-plus gravities’ acceleration of the Hauptman effect.
But warheads cared little for radiation or acceleration, and now Hauptman-effect weapons came tearing in pursuit. They needed six seconds to burn out their coils and reach maximum velocity, but that took almost two light-seconds, and the present range was far less than that. Which meant they came in much more slowly . . . but that their drives were still capable of evasive and homing maneuvers as they attacked.
Proximity-fused counter missiles sped to meet them, and Alicia watched in awe as space burned behind her. The counter missiles were far smaller than their attackers, and the alpha synth carried an enormous number of them, but its magazines were far from unlimited. Yet not a single warhead got through, for no one aboard it—with the possible exception of Tisiphone—had any interest in counter-attacking. That meant all of its energy weapons were available for point defense, and no missile had the onboard ECM to evade an alpha synth AI in full cry. There were far too
few of them to saturate its defenses, and nothing short of a saturation attack could break them.
Captain Morales glared at his display as his cruiser led the pursuit. HMS Implacable and her sisters were losing ground steadily, but their target was in ideal range . . . and they were accomplishing exactly nothing.
The entire operation was insane. No one could steal an alpha synth—only a trained alpha synth pilot could even get aboard one! But someone had stolen this one, and precisely how Admiral Marat expected a cruiser flotilla to stop it passed Morales’s understanding. The forts might have a chance, but his ships didn’t. The damned thing was laughing at them!
Another useless missile salvo vanished far short of target, and the captain swore under his breath.
“Somebody get my bloody darts!” he snarled. “Maybe they can stop it!”
“You’re kidding me!” Vice Admiral Horth told her com screen.
“The hell I am.” There was just over a one-second transmission delay each way between Soissons Orbit One and Jefferson Field, and Admiral Marat’s expression was less humorous even than the weapons fire in Horth’s plot when he replied two seconds later. “We’ve got a rogue drop commando in an alpha synth, Becky, and she’s boosting out of here like a bat out of hell.”
“Jesus,” Horth muttered, and looked up as Governor General Treadwell hurried into PriCon. Given the governor’s lifelong dislike for planets, he preferred to make his home aboard the HQ fortress. Now he leaned forward into the field of Horth’s pickup and stabbed Marat with a glower that boded ill for the port admiral’s future.
“And just what,” he asked coldly, “is going on here?”
<I knew this was a formidable vessel, Little One, but it surpasses even my expectations. What might Odysseus have accomplished with its like?>
<With me in his corner, he’d’ve owned the damned planet,>