Victory Conditions (19 page)

“The enemy can pick up that transmission.”

“With any luck, the enemy is busy at the moment. Use tight-beam, the ‘Snowflower’ set.”

The dispersal microjump ended; all ships reported in. Partrade, on
Angelhair,
had moved closest to Tobados Yards. “All the ships in the yard appear to be there still,” he said. “I should be within two hours of them.” A pause. “I…er…overjumped.”

Fatal, if he overjumped into one of their own ships. But no time now to regret the lack of training time, the lack of calibration she’d insisted on with her first little group.

“Forward your scan data,” Ky said. “Then all captains—use your new scan data to refine your microjump calibration. Last chance.”

The data poured in; the new battle analysis computer combined data from
Angelhair,
their own stealthed observer left back near the downjump exit, and all the other ships to produce a best guess with narrower uncertainty bars and the first movement cones. A debris field now blurred scan where the first contact had come. One Moray cluster—ten ships—was simply gone. Others were fragmented; without the system ansible, they could not communicate well enough to coordinate their actions. Maniples tried to hold together, within easy lightspeed communication, but this made them fatter targets for the enemy.

“He’s thrown a lot at them,” Douglas said. “We’ve got…forty-eight enemy icons, at least. If half those yellows turn red, we’re in for it.”

“We’ll be in for it worse if they get those warships,” Ky said. “Except for the Bissonet ships, he’s got the same kind of ships our privateers have, and he’s fought enough that they should also be showing structural problems by now.”

“Unless he picked up more military ships somewhere,” Douglas said. “But yeah, he needs more.”

“Coming up on twenty, Admiral,” someone said.

“Execute,” Ky said. “Then recalibrate.” It wouldn’t be as good as if they’d calibrated before the battle, but it should help reduce some of the inaccuracies.

Vanguard
skipped and then returned to normal space; new data popped up on the screens. Now some thirty of the enemy ships hung less than a light-minute from the yard, their acceleration clearly marked on the trace, while eight were poised on the far side of the debris field.

“Got voice recordings, Admiral,” one of the communications techs said. “Moray Defense challenged an apparent official mission from the government that ordered the warships. Moray told them to halt and be inspected at an outer station. They must have thought they might be challenged, because that’s when Turek’s force attacked the nearest cluster. Other Moray Defense clusters responded to that area, but they came in singly—Moray’s lost half its on-duty clusters at this point.”

“Defeat in detail,” Yamini murmured. “And there’s nothing left to defend the yard; it’ll be over before the other half of their defense force realizes it’s started.”

“We have the local codes,” Ky said. “And they have our beacon IDs. Send our ships to their cluster stations, use lightspeed com to tell them what’s going on…”

“And tell them to do what?” Yamini asked. “Their doctrine would have them support the cluster under attack; that’s how the closest ones got hammered.”

“Tell them to stick with our ships—follow their orders—because otherwise they’re dead or useless.”

“Moray’s yelling for help—they’ve picked up our closest ships’ beacons…”

“Tell them we’re here, and we’ll engage shortly. Wait—what are those ships leaving the station?” Seventeen blips, none with working beacons, had lifted from the station an hour ago, in no particular formation. “Are they Moray-crewed, or what?”

“There’s a problem…a lot of radio chatter I don’t understand it all. Sabotage, they think, but also…some hotheads took some ships out to fight off the invaders, only the ships aren’t really commissioned.”

“Which is which?” Ky asked. Scan recognized the ships as large, some of them as armed, weapons hot. If those were the enemy…half her own ships were now dispersed to offer support and communications to surviving Moray clusters. Some of those were beginning to move together, following Ky’s battle plan.

“Eight have crew, they think. Not trained crew, though. Dockyard workers, riggers and the like. The others are under some kind of remote control.”

“Can they blow them from the station? How long ago did they undock?” Ky touched her own scan controls, enlarging and shrinking until she found the views she wanted, estimates of the ships’ velocity, acceleration, course.

“They don’t want to destroy them, they’re saying—those are brand-new warships, worth a fortune—”

“Idiots!” They could lose not just ships, but the station, the entire system, if the enemy got away with those ships. But her force was now engaged…some of it. Those ships weren’t her problem yet…even without proper beacon IDs, they were pinned on scan. Without working weapons systems, they could be blown anytime. More important to get Turek and his ships.

Tobados Yards

Lozar woke to the blare of emergency sirens, with Jari pulling at his arm. His head felt the size of a humri drum, and pounded like one, too.

“Waas goin’ on?” he muttered.

“What’s going on is that you and that bunch of unbeliever ruffians you drink with came in staggering drunk last night…you went out again after the betrothal dinner…and now there’s an emergency—”

“My head hurts—”

“I hope it bursts,” Jari said.

He peered up at her. She looked really angry, not mild and forgiving as a wife should.

“You disgraced the family. You brought those men home; you insisted they stay to dinner; if Pasandir breaks the betrothal it would not surprise me—”

“They were happy for me; they are my friends—”

“And you smelled of liquor even before the dinner began. How could you?” She looked ready to cry now. Jari crying had always melted his heart. “And they aren’t even believers! How can you call them friends?”

Lozar rolled over and pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. Pain lanced through his eyeballs. What had he drunk, after they headed out to celebrate? Something they called “shiny bock”? Why hadn’t he stuck to the same green Stellar Special he was used to?

“Hurry up,” Jari urged. “Whatever it is, it’s important.”

“I’m coming…” He tried to stand, staggered onto her; a hard elbow in the ribs finally got him upright. “I need a shower.”

“No time. The red lights are flashing.”

A serious emergency, then. He stumbled into the ’fresher, his stomach churning, and threw up a foul-smelling mess. He ran the water as hard as it would go, just to rinse off the smell, and put on the clothes Jari held out while still damp.

“Here,” she said, still grim-faced, holding out a bulb of black liquid. No need to ask if she’d sweetened it or put in the stomach-protecting powder: he’d have to drink it black and bitter as the regrets of a fool, which is what he felt like.

It ran down his throat in a fiery, acidic wave, shocking him more awake. He looked again at his wife, his wife whom he loved. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re a good man, Lozar,” she said. “But you’re too easily led.” She sniffed. “Friends, indeed.”

They
were
friends, but he wasn’t going to argue. Not all the humods were bad people, the part of them that was people. It was only the nonhuman part that was bad.

He hurried out of the apartment and down the passage toward his emergency station, his head still pounding. What was going on? Around him, others hurried as well, just like in drills, but traffic thinned even as he neared dockside. His emergency station, across the construction arm from his workplace, served ships within days of launch.

“You look like you was run over by a cargo lift,” Gerry said. Gerry looked disgustingly fit, to Lozar’s gaze, only a little red around the eyes.

“How much did we drink?” Lozar asked.

“You,” David said, coming up on his other side. “The right question is how much did
you
drink, and the answer is, you tried to match us. You know you can’t do that, not without an implant to detox for you.”

“You need a tab,” Gerry said. “Here—” With a quick look around for any proctors, he unpeeled a tab and pushed it into Lozar’s hand.

“It’s not allowed,” Lozar began. Its little cloud of short-lived nannites was just another form of humodification, according to their cleric.

“It’s an emergency. What kind of god is it that won’t forgive you when it’s an emergency? C’mon, Lozar, we need you alert, and you ain’t within a kilometer of alert.”

Lozar palmed the tab into his mouth. He imagined he could feel the illicit little demons—they were, in the Law, the same as demons—crawling through his taste buds into his bloodstream. He shuddered. In moments, the sour taste in his mouth vanished; his stomach no longer burned; his vision sharpened.

“Did that have other—”

“Oh, just a little stimulant. No, I promise you, the nannies are short-timers. Gone in five minutes.”

“I have to pee,” Lozar said a minute or so later.

“And that’ll be all of it,” David promised.

The sirens stopped while he was in the crank; he came out to the mutter of low voices, the rustle of clothing and shuffle of feet on the decks.

“Phittanji! Over here!” His shift boss waved. “We need all you fellows without implants…”

Some scut work no doubt, something low-level for the supposedly handicapped pure humans. Lozar looked around for Gerry and David, but they were in another group now.

“This is an attack, not a drill,” his shift boss said. “Remember that broadcast? They want our ships—we think they’re trying to control them remotely, and we have to stop them. The first people we sent in collapsed—apparently there’s some kind of electronic attack aimed at cranial implants. You Miznarii don’t have to worry about that. We need you to get aboard and disable the controls.”

Lozar’s stomach clenched. He looked sideways. Simsan Attara, a member of his congregation, looked back, face shining with pride. Real humans were going to do what humods couldn’t…Miznarii were about to be the heroes, about to be recognized…

“If you can figure out what’s causing the attack on implants,” their shift boss went on, “turn it off. Destroy it. Doesn’t matter how much damage you do; we can’t let these guys get the ships.” He glanced down at a datapad in his hand. “Gottlin and Pelinnha, take Dock One. Serranja and Metablos, Dock Two…” As he called the name, Miznarii at the front of the group moved up, picked up some kind of toolcase, and headed down the row to the designated docking spaces.

Lozar, at the back of the group, went to Dock Thirty with Veenaji Pestanza, trying to remember the shift boss’ hasty instructions. Turn on the E-scanner on entry, report any anomalies, moving directly from the entry to the control nexi in the ship’s axis. Behind them trailed an insulated cable like a slick black tail: a hardened communications line supposedly proof against EC interference.

Veenaji, nursing his damaged arm in a sling, held the hardened communications device; Lozar carried the toolcase and its probe. The probe bleeped; Veenaji turned to look. “What’s that?”

Lozar grinned at Veenaji, and gestured for him to kill the microphone.

“It’s proof a Miznarii worked on the ship,” he said.

“How did you know that?” Veenaji asked.

“I put it there,” Lozar said, feeling once more that little surge of pride. “I put them on every ship, like a seal that says,
A Miznarii worked here.
That it doesn’t take humods to build spaceships.”

“Let me see,” Veenaji said. Lozar put the probe directly on the datadot and turned the screen so Veenaji could read it.

“It doesn’t say we worked on it,” Veenaji said.

“Of course it does,” Lozar said. “I’ve read them; our Amadh showed me.”

“Look.”

On the screen, instead of the pious message Lozar had seen before, lines scrolled past:…STATUS SECTION 14.3 COMPLETE, STATUS SECTION 14.4 COMPLETE, STATUS SECTION 14.5…CONTROL INITIATION CODE 112, CODE 297, CODE 410…

“What is that?” Lozar asked. His belly clenched; he felt cold all over.

“Nothing good,” Veenaji said. “Lozar…what did you
do
?”

“I didn’t,” Lozar said, but his clammy hands told him he had. “Elder Marjee told me I should talk to our Amadh, and he said for this service to the Faithful, I would be paid a little for my trouble and the risk I was taking—”

“But you…but this…Lozar, these things you put—how many?—they’re harming the ships!”

“I don’t understand,” Lozar said.

“How many?” Veenaji demanded.

“Uh…one by the entry hatch, so the Faithful coming aboard—” The expression on Veenaji’s face stopped him. “Uh…altogether…seven. One here, one blessing…er…one on the casing for each control nexus, one on the bridge…”

“Burn it out,” Veenaji said, his voice harsh. “Burn them all out, quickly! I can’t believe you—and they’ll think we all—Lozar, you are so…so stupid!” He yanked on the trailing cable. “I have to think how to say it so they don’t blame us all.”