Singularity: Star Carrier: Book Three (7 page)

“
Jeanne d’Arc
!” Gray barked again. “Cease fire and cease acceleration or I’m going to put a hundred megatons right on your bridge tower!”

“Don’t shoot, Dragon One,” a voice said over the fleet channel. “We will comply.”

He had to back out of his safe pocket, then, or risk hurtling into the underside of the carrier’s shield cap when the
Jeanne d’Arc
cut her acceleration. It could have been a trick, a ruse designed to pull him out of his pocket . . . but the other Dragonfires were in close now, and the Pan-Europeans evidently had no desire for a stand-up fight.

Gray’s threat to use nukes had been pure bluff, of course. A Krait missile going off at such close range would probably have burned through the carrier’s bridge shielding, but definitely would have vaporized Gray’s fighter.

“
America
CIC,” he called, “Dragon One. Hostile carrier has ceased acceleration.”

“Well done, Dragonfires,” Wizewski’s voice called back. “Keep them in your sights.
California
and
Saskatchewan
are on the way to take over.”

“Copy that. He hesitated. “We also need a rescue SAR. One casualty.”

Rostenkowski was no longer transmitting. His ship had been smashed; he
might
have survived the impact, but a search-and-rescue tug would have to match courses with him and drag him back to be sure.

He watched as
Jeanne d’Arc
continued to bleed water into space.

How, he wondered, was Koenig going to handle
this
one? . . .

Chapter Four

11 April 2405

CIC

TC/USNA CVS
America

Kuiper Belt, HD 157950

98 light years from Earth

0940 hours, TFT

“A
dmiral Giraurd,” Koenig said, standing. “Welcome aboard.” He kept his voice and his expression pleasant, even mild. It was important at this point to avoid any sense of drama.

Testosterone-laced posturing would not help at all at this point.

“Koenig,” Giraurd replied with a curt nod. “You
still
have the option of surrendering.”

“I think, sir, that I will decline that privilege.”

They were meeting physically instead of through virtual communications, within the spacious officers lounge in
America
’s hab modules. Present were Captain Buchanan and most of Koenig’s command staff and, just in case, several Marine guards flanking the doors as unobtrusively as they could considering that they were in full combat armor. Koenig and the other USNA officers wore full dress; Giraurd wore his command utilities, a blue jumper with the gold emblems of his rank on the shoulders and down the left sleeve.

“You are making an enormous mistake,” Giraurd said, taking an offered seat.

“Perhaps.” Koenig sat down as well, watching Giraurd across a low table grown from the deck. “But if so, I risk losing my command and, possibly, my fleet. If you and the Conciliationists are wrong, however, we could lose all of humanity. Our species could become extinct. Can you understand my point of view?”

Giraurd hesitated, then gave another nod. “I suppose so. But it is not for the military to make political decisions of this magnitude. You, of all people, should know
that
.”

Giraurd, Koenig knew, was referring to the peculiar political baggage the USNA derived from two of its predecessors—Canada and the United States of America. In those nation-states, the military had been expressly forbidden to participate in political decisions. While military coups had not been unthinkable, certainly, they’d been extremely unlikely when the military’s commander-in-chief had been the civilian president.

It was a tradition not all members of the Terran Confederation shared. Giraurd was chiding him for breaking that tradition, for making what was essentially a political decision without going through a democratic process.

“Out here,” Koenig said quietly, “we have to make our own decisions. They don’t see what
we
see, not from a hundred light years away.”

“And suppose your little raid behind the enemy lines backfires, Koenig? Suppose it brings down upon us the full weight of the Sh’daar?”

“In other words,” Koenig replied gently, “what if we make them angry? Earth lost sixty million souls during their last foray into the Sol System. It’s hard to see how they could be any madder.”

During the Defense of Earth, in October of 2404, a twelve-kilo mass traveling at a significant fraction of
c
had skimmed past the sun and slammed into the Atlantic Ocean, 3,500 kilometers off the North American seaboard. The resultant tidal waves had scoured the coastlines of North and South America, Africa, and of Europe, killing an estimated 60 million people.

“Perhaps,” Giraurd said. “We might not be so lucky with another direct attack on Earth. That impactor might have simply been a demonstration of their power. We would not survive a
determined
attack.”

“I agree,” Koenig said. “And that’s why we’re out here. Even the Sh’daar don’t have unlimited resources. If we pose a threat to their worlds, to their star systems and the systems of their allies, we’ll draw them away from the Confederation.”

“You are a fly attacking an elephant, Koenig.”

“Perhaps. But elephants, I will remind you, are extinct. Earth still has
lots
of flies.”

“Listen to what I am saying! My point is that the Sh’daar and their allies, the Turusch, the H’rulka, the Nungiirtok, and others, are too big, too powerful, for Earth to face alone!”

“I hear what you’re saying, Grand Admiral.
My
point is that Earth needs time, and I’m attempting to buy that time. I’m not against negotiating. I’m just hoping we can negotiate with the Sh’daar when they’re not holding a gun to our head!”

“And if we give in to the Sh’daar demands . . . what is the worst that will happen? We give up our insane gallop into a world of ever higher and higher technology! We become content with what we have! We avoid the Vinge Singularity! And what would be so bad about that?”

Giraurd was referring to a long-expected exponentiation of human technology, sometimes called the Technological Singularity, when human life, blending with human technology, would pass out of all recognition. It was named for a late-twentieth-century math professor, computer scientist, and writer who’d pointed out that the rate of increase in human technology had fast been approaching a vertical line on the graph, and
that
had been in 1993. When the Sh’daar had delivered their ultimatum almost four centuries later, they’d demanded that Humankind stop all technological development and research, especially in the fields of genetics, robotics, information systems and computers, and nanotechnology. These so-called GRIN technologies were seen as the principal drivers in the coming Technological Singularity; arrest them, and human life might not evolve into something unrecognizably alien.

“I don’t know,” Koenig admitted. “But I
do
think we deserve to make our own mistakes.”

“The Sh’daar seem terrified of the Singularity,” Giraurd said. “Perhaps it is with good cause.”

“Terrified of the Singularity itself?” Koenig asked. “Or of what happens if another technic species like us reaches it?” He shrugged. “In any case, if it’s a mistake, it’s our mistake. We should not allow ourselves to be protected from it by the Sh’daar or anyone else. And more than that . . . don’t you think we should make our own decisions about our future and about who we’re going to play with as we move out into the galaxy? If the Sh’daar fold us into their little empire, they’ll use us like they use the Turusch and the others, right? As frontline warriors? Damn it, Admiral, the Confederation military will end up working for
them
, puttering around the galaxy putting down upstart technic species . . . species like we are now. That is, unless they decide to just turn us all into slaves and be done with it!”

“I hadn’t realized, Admiral Koenig, that you were a xenophobe.”

“I am
not
, Admiral Giraurd. But I
do
believe in self-determination for my species!”

The two men glared at each other for a moment across the table. Gradually, Koenig relaxed. He’d hoped to get the Pan-European admiral to see reason—as, no doubt, Giraurd had hoped for him—but the argument was going nowhere. Giraurd would not change his mind, and neither would Koenig.

“I see no reason to continue this discussion, Admiral,” he said. “How badly was the
Jeanne d’Arc
damaged?”

“Our water reserves are gone,” he said with a Gallic shrug. “Repair robots are working on the breached tanks now.”

“I’ve given order that the battlegroup’s repair and fabrication ships be deployed to lend you a hand. There were no casualties?”

“No. Your fighters were . . . surgically precise.”

In 1921, General William Lendrum “Billy” Mitchell had argued, then demonstrated, that aircraft, only recently emerged as military weapons, could sink battleships. Within another twenty years, air attacks against naval fleets at Taranto and Pearl Harbor would completely change the way wars were fought at sea, but in 1921 the idea was not merely revolutionary, but heretical.

Young Lieutenant Gray had demonstrated a similar principle, one now well known within the military and political hierarchies back home but frequently ignored: a twenty-two-ton fighter could disable a capital ship a kilometer long and massing millions of tons. The trick was in slipping it in exactly where it would be most effective, with enough firepower to overcome the target’s gravitic shielding.
Surgical precision
, as Giraurd had put it, made possible by advanced technology, was the only means by which a lone gravfighter could take down a far larger foe.

Something of the sort would be necessary if the Terran Confederation was going to win over the Sh’daar.

“The intent was to stop you, Admiral,” Koenig said. “Not hurt you.”

“I could wish, sir, that you had destroyed the
Jeanne d’Arc
. . . and me with her.”

Giraurd’s emotional pain showed for a moment, but Koenig ignored it. The man would have to explain his failure later, in front of the Senate Military Directorate. It might even mean the end of his career.

Welcome to the club
, Koenig thought.

“Do you anticipate any problem getting the
Jeanne d’Arc
ready for Alcubierre Drive?”

“No. The damage is superficial. But we will need to take on water.”

“Of course. And this is the place for it.”

Fleet tugs were already jockeying iceteroids in so that the ships of CBG-18 could drink their fill. The Kuiper Belt of any star was the storage freezer for leftovers from that star system’s creation. Asteroids, comet nuclei, icy Kuiper objects like Pluto and Eris back in the home solar system . . . they drifted out here in centuries-long orbits and at temperatures a few degrees above zero absolute, with the local sun merely the brightest star in a sky filled with stars. Chunks of ice were nuzzled in close to resupply ships, which injected them with self-replicating nanodisassemblers. These, in turn, broke the ice down into fragments a few microns across, separated out the frozen methane, ammonia, and other contaminants, and transported pure water into the shield-cap tanks of the waiting ships. As quickly as one hundred-meter iceteroid had dwindled away, another was moved in to take its place; a quarter of CBG-18’s ships had already been topped off, and the rest would be refueled within four more days.

“As soon as the European contingent has been watered,” Koenig continued, “you can take them back to Sol. It’s a fifty-four-day flight under Alcubierre Drive back to Sol, so you’ll be home by early June. I’ve already spoken with the commanding officers of the other ships. The USNA flotilla will be joining me.”

“And the Chinese?”

Koenig smiled. “They’re still considering the question. Their orders were to support your operations against me . . . but I suspect they also have orders to keep an eye on what we’re doing out here.”

Beijing, Koenig thought, might well be interested in a separate peace with the Sh’daar, and if so, they needed to keep track of what Koenig’s expeditionary force was doing. The nine-ship Eastern Dawn Hegemon fleet might still decide to accompany the
America
battlegroup.

How well he could trust them when they did encounter Sh’daar forces was another matter, and one he would address when it came up. The
Zheng He
and her fighters would be welcome additions to the fleet, however, the next time they met the enemy.

“And where will you be going?” Giraurd asked. “If you’re willing to tell me, of course.”

Koenig considered the question. He didn’t want the politicians on Earth to be too up to date on his plans. He didn’t want CBG-18 to emerge at a target star system and find a Confederation fleet—one larger, better prepared, and more determined than Giraurd’s squadron—waiting for him there.

On the other hand, the next stop on his agenda, taken from the Turusch Directory, was a star called Texaghu Resch, located 133 light years ahead, and some 210 light years from Sol. Even if Giraurd shot the news of Koenig’s planned destination back to Sol on a Sleipnir packet, it would be eighteen days for that leg of the trip, and another 116 days for a fleet to get to Texaghu Resch, not counting the time it would take to assemble such a fleet if the Confederation Senate decided to send one. It would be more than four and a half months before Earth could reach Koenig’s next destination.

CBG-18, on the other hand, would be at Texaghu Resch in another seventy-four days. Whatever they found there, it would be another two months
at least
before the Confederation Military Directorate could catch up with them.

And by that time, Koenig expected that they would be long, long gone.

“Would the information, do you think, be of help to you personally when you face the Directorate?” Koenig asked.

Giraurd’s eyes widened. “Why should you care?”

“Because I know what it’s like to face losing it all, while doing what
I
think is my duty.”

Giraurd nodded slowly. “It would help, yes. I wouldn’t be going back . . . empty-handed.”

“We’re heading for Texaghu Resch. The Agletsch know of it . . . and it’s listed in the Turusch Directory.”