Pawn's Gambit: And Other Stratagems Page 2

  “Correction, Voyagemaster,” Orofan said. “We can’t reach it in the appointed time. But our normal scooping gives us sufficient fuel to finish the voyage.”

  “At greatly reduced speed,” Lassarr pointed out. “How soon could we arrive?”

  There was silence as Pliij did the calculation. “Several lifetimes,” he said at last. “Five, perhaps six.”

  “So,” Lassarr said, short tentacles set grimly. “I’m afraid that settles the matter.”

  “Settles it how?” Orofan asked suspiciously.

  “It’s unfortunate, but we cannot risk such a delay. The sleep tanks weren’t designed to last that long.”

  “You’re saying, then, that we continue our present course? Despite what that’ll do to life in this system?”

  Lassarr frowned at him. “I remind you, Shipmaster, that we carry a million of our fellow Sk’cee—”

  “Whose lives are worth more than the billions of beings who may inhabit that system?”

  “You have a curious philosophy, Shipmaster; a philosophy, I might add, that could be misunderstood. What would the ancestors say if you came among them after deliberately allowing a million Sk’cee to perish helplessly? What would those million themselves say?”

  “What would they say,” Orofan countered softly, “if they knew we’d bought their lives at such a cost to others? Is there honor in that, Voyagemaster?”

  “Honor lies in the performance of one’s duty. Mine is to deliver the colonists safely to their new world.”

  “I’m aware of that. But surely there’s a higher responsibility here. And we don’t know the sleep tanks won’t survive the longer journey.”

  Lassarr considered him silently. “It’s clear you feel strongly about this,” he said finally. “I propose a compromise. You have one aarn to offer a reasonable alternative. If you can’t we’ll carry out our fuel scoop on schedule.” He turned and strode out.

  Pliij looked at Orofan. “What now?”

  The Shipmaster sank into a seat, thinking furiously. “Get me all the information we have on this region of space. Our own sensor work, Farseer charts and data—everything. There has to be another way.”

  The group sitting around the table was small, highly select, and very powerful. And, Carey thought as he finished his explanation, considerably shaken. Executor Nordli took over even as the general was sitting down. “Obviously, our first order of business is to find out why our visitor is planning to dive into the sun. Suggestions?”

  “Mr. Executor, I believe I have a logical explanation,” an older man sitting next to Du Bellay spoke up. Dr. Horan Roth, Carey remembered: chief astrophysicist at the Chiron Institute.

  “Go ahead, Dr. Roth,” Nordli said.

  Roth steepled his fingers. “The speed of a ramjet is limited not by relativity, but by friction with the interstellar medium. The mathematics are trivial; the bottom line is that the limiting speed is just that of the ship’s exhaust. Now, if you use a magnetic scoop to take in hydrogen, fuse it to helium, and use the energy liberated to send this helium out your exhaust, it turns out that your velocity is only twelve percent lightspeed.”

  “But the Intruder’s moving considerably faster than that,” Assembly-­Prime Wu-sin objected.

  “Exactly,” Roth nodded. “They’re apparently using an after-accelerator­ of some sort to boost their exhaust speed. But this takes energy, requiring extra fuel.”

  “I see,” Nordli rumbled. “They have to carry extra hydrogen which can’t be replaced in the interstellar medium. So they periodically dive into a star to replenish their tanks?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “Dr. Du Bellay, you’re an expert on alien cultures, correct?” Nordli asked.

  “To some extent, sir,” Du Bellay said, “bearing in mind we’ve so far studied only dead civilizations, and only a handful of those.”

  “Yes. In your opinion, what are the chances of communicating with these aliens? And what are the chances that would make any difference in their actions?”

  Du Bellay frowned. “I’m afraid the answer to both questions is very poor,” he said slowly. “It’s true that various scientists have developed so-called ‘first-contact primers’ in case we ever came across a living intelligent species. But it’s also true that teaching any of our language to an alien would take considerable time, and we haven’t got that time. No ship ever built could match speeds with the Intruder, so we would have to give everything to them in short, high-density data bursts. And even assuming they were equipped to receive whichever wavelengths we use, they have only seven or eight hours—in their time frame—to decipher it.”

  “I have to concur with Dr. Du Bellay,” Carey spoke up. “As a matter of fact, we’ve already sent out a series of tachships to try precisely what he suggested, but we don’t expect anything to come of it.”

  “Perhaps we could signal our existence some other way,” Evelyn Woodcock, Nordli’s assistant, suggested. “Say, a fusion drive pointed at them, blinking off and on. They couldn’t miss that.”

  “And then what?” Carey asked.

  “Why—surely they’d change course.”

  “With their own mission at stake? If it’s a colony ship of some kind, its supplies are likely very tightly figured. If they change course, they may die. At the speed they’re making we sure as hell can’t offer to refuel them.”

  “There’s an even more disturbing possibility,” Nordli said quietly. “This refueling technique may be deliberately designed to sterilize the system for future colonization.”

  “I think it’s unfair to ascribe motives like that to them without proof,” Du Bellay said. The words, Carey judged, were more reflex than true objection—the archaeologist looked as uneasy as everyone else.

  “No?” Nordli shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that the Intruder is threatening us with massive destruction. We must stop him.”

  Wu-sin stirred. “Executor Nordli, you’re proposing what amounts to an act of war against another intelligent species. A decision of that magnitude must be approved by the full Solar Assembly at least; ideally by all the colonies as well.”

  “There’s no time to consult the colonies,” Nordli said. “As to the Assembly … you have two hours to get their approval.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “I’ll go ahead without it.”

  Wu-sin nodded grimly. “I needed to know where you stand. I’ll get their approval.” He rose, bowed, and left the room.

  Nordli turned to Carey. “General, how do we proceed?”

  Carey let his eyes sweep the others’ faces as he thought. They were all on Nordli’s side, he saw: Du Bellay, like himself, only because there was no other choice. How many lives were they planning to snuff out?—innocent lives, perhaps, who may not realize what they were doing? “The trouble, Mr. Executor, is that the Peacekeeper forces really aren’t set up for this kind of threat.”

  “You’ve got nuclear missiles, don’t you? And ships to deliver them?”

  “There are two problems. First, hitting the Intruder would be extremely difficult. A shot from the side would probably miss, alerting them as to our intentions. A head-on shot would hit, all right, but the extremely high magnetic fields it would have to penetrate would almost certainly incapacitate any missile we’ve got. And second, there’s no guarantee even a direct hit would do any good. Just because they don’t have FTL drives doesn’t mean they’re primitives—only that their technology developed along different lines. And don’t forget, that ship is designed to bore through the edge of a star at nearly lightspeed.”

  “There’s one further problem,” Dr. Roth spoke up. “Disabling or even disintegrating it at this point wouldn’t help us any. The fragments would still hit the sun, with the same consequences.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Then we have to stop o
r deflect it.” Evelyn suggested. “We have to put something massive in its path.”

  Nordli looked at Carey. “General?”

  Carey was doing a quick calculation in his head. “Yes, either would work. Slowing it even slightly would send it through a less dense region of the photosphere. Assuming, of course, that he stays with his present course.”

  “What can we put in his path?” Nordli asked. “Could we tow an asteroid out there?”

  Carey shook his head. “Impossible. As I pointed out, he’s far off the ecliptic plane. Moving an asteroid there would take months.” Even as he spoke he was mentally checking off possibilities. Tachships were far too small to be useful, and the only heavy Peacekeeper ships in the System were too far away from the Intruder’s path. “The only chance I can see,” he said slowly, “is if there’s a big private or commercial ship close enough to intercept him a good distance from the sun. But we don’t have authority to requisition nonmilitary spacecraft.”

  “You do now,” Nordli said grimly. “The government also guarantees compensation.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Carey touched an intercom button and gave Captain Mahendra the search order.

  There was a lot of traffic in mankind’s home system, but the Peacekeepers’ duties included monitoring such activity, and it was only a few minutes before Mahendra was back on the intercom. “There’s only one really good choice,” he reported. “A big passenger liner, the Origami, almost a hundred thousand tons. She’s between Titan and Ceres at present and has a eighty-four percent probability of making an intercept point on time; seventy-nine if she drops her passengers first. One other liner and three freighters of comparable size have probabilities of fifteen percent or lower.”

  “I see,” Carey said through suddenly dry lips. “Thank you, Captain. Stand by.”

  Ne looked back up at Nordli. The Executor nodded. “No choice. Have that liner drop its passengers and get moving.”

  “Yes, sir.” Turning to the intercom, Carey began to give the orders. He was vaguely surprised at the self-control in his voice.

  “Well, Shipmaster?” Lassarr asked.

  Orofan kept his expression neutral. “I have no suggestion other than the one I offered an aarn ago, Voyagemaster: that we change course and continue at reduced speed.”

  “For six lifetimes?” Lassarr snorted. “That’s unacceptable.”

  “It won’t be that bad.” Orofan consulted his calculations. “We could penetrate the outer atmosphere of the star without causing significant damage to the system. We’d collect enough fuel that way to shorten the trip to barely two lifetimes.”

  “That’s still not good enough. I have no wish to join the ancestors before our people are safely to their new home.”

  “That can be arranged,” Orofan said stiffly. “You and any of the Dawnsent’s crew who wished could be put in the spare sleep tanks. If necessary, I could run the ship alone.”

  For a moment Orofan thought Lassarr was going to take offense at his suggestion. But the Voyagemaster’s expression changed and he merely shrugged. “Your offer is honorable, but impractical. The critical factor is still the durability of the sleep tanks, and that hasn’t changed. However, I’ve come up with an alternative of my own.” He paused. “We could make our new colony in this system.”

  “Impossible,” Orofan said. “We don’t have the fuel to stop.”

  “Certainly we do. A large proportion of this spacecraft’s equipment could be done without for a short time. Converting all of that to fusion material and reaction mass would give us all that we need, even considering that we would overshoot and have to come back.”

  “No!” The exclamation burst involuntarily from Orofan. His beloved Dawnsent broken up haphazardly and fed to a fusion drive?

  “Why not?”

  His emotional response, Orofan knew, wouldn’t impress the other, and he fumbled for logical reasons. “We don’t know if there’s a planet here we could live on, for one thing. Even if there is, the natives may already be living there. We are hardly in a position to bargain for territory.”

  “We are not entirely helpless, however,” Lassarr said. “Our starshield’s a formidable defense, and our meteor-destroyer could be adapted to offense. Our magnetic scoop itself is deadly to most known forms of life.” His tentacles took on a sardonic expression. “And if they’re too advanced to be subjugated, we’ll simply ask for their help in rebuilding and refueling our ship and continue on our way.”

  Orofan could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Are you serious? You’d start a war for the sake of only a million Sk’cee—a million, out of our eight hundred billions?”

  Suddenly, Lassarr looked very tired. “I’ll say this one more time, Shipmaster. The voyage, and those million Sk’cee, are my prime responsibility. I don’t have the luxury of taking a broader view. By both nature and training I am highly protective toward my charges—if I were otherwise I wouldn’t have been made Voyagemaster. Racial selfishness is sometimes necessary for survival, a fact those who sent us knew well. This is one of those times. I will do what I must, and will face the ancestors without shame.”

  There was nothing Orofan could say—the struggle to follow the honorable path was vital to him as well. But what did honor demand here?

  Lassarr gazed at the blackness outside the viewport. “You have one-half aarn to choose between our current course and ending the voyage here,” he said. “If you won’t choose, I’ll do so for you.”

  Heart pounding painfully, Orofan signed assent. “Very well.”

  One of the nicest traditions still remaining from the days of the old seagoing luxury ships, Chandra Carey thought, was that of the officers eating dinner with their passengers. She delighted in choosing who would join her at the captain’s table, always making certain someone interesting sat at her side. She was therefore annoyed when First Officer Goode interrupted a lively discussion on genetics with a call suggesting she join him on the bridge.

  “Mechanical trouble?” she asked softly into the intercom. No sense alarming the passengers.

  “No, Captain. But you’ll want to get up here right away.” Goode’s voice was casual—far too casual.

  Chandra’s annoyance evaporated. “On my way.”

  She made her apologies and reached the bridge in ninety seconds. Goode was waiting, a message flimsy in his hand. “Get a grip on your guyline,” he advised, handing her the paper.

  A frown creased Chandra’s forehead; it deepened as she read. “This is ridiculous. Drop my passengers and fireball it ’way the hell off the ecliptic? What for?”

  “The explanation’s still coming in—tight beam, with the line’s own security code,” Goode told her. “And it’s under your father’s name, no less.” He took the flimsy back and headed toward the navigator.

  “Dad?” Chandra stepped to the communications console and peered at the paper sliding slowly from the slot. Sure enough: PEACEKEEPER HEADQUARTERS, EARTH — TO P.L. ORIGAMI: FROM GEN. SANFORD CAREY. Beneath the heading the message was nearly complete, and Chandra read it with a mixture of fascination and horror.

  “Well?” Goode asked.

  She tore off the paper and thrust it into his hands even as she groped for the main intercom board. For a moment she paused, organizing the thoughts that whirled like Martian winds through her mind. Then she stabbed the “general” button.

  “Attention, attention,” she said in her most authoritative voice. “This is Captain Carey. All passengers and nonessential crewmembers are to report to the lifeboats immediately. There is no immediate danger to the Origami, but this is not a drill. Repeating: all passengers and nonessential crew report immediately to lifeboats. This is not a drill.”

  The “abandon ship” alarm sounded even as she keyed a different circuit. “Bridge to Power. I want the drive up to full ergs in twenty minutes. Start tying in for full remote to the bri
dge, too.” She waited for an acknowledgment and switched off. “Navigator!” she called across the bridge. “Get me a course to the vector on that paper—” She stabbed a finger at the flimsy Goode had shown her. “I want a minimum-time path to the earliest possible intercept point that leaves us stationary. Any acceleration she can handle, and you can run the tanks. Everyone else: if you’re not on flight prep, help get the passengers off. We fireball in twenty minutes. Move!”

  The bridge erupted with activity. Chandra sank into her chair, rereading the message carefully. It was hard to believe that the long search was ending like this, with a kill-or-die confrontation that made less sense even than shooting a deadly snake. And yet, despite the danger and irony, she felt a small surge of excitement. The safety of the entire solar system had unexpectedly fallen into her hands—and her father himself was counting on her. She wouldn’t let him down.

  Glancing up at the chrono, she keyed the intercom. “Captain to lifeboat bays—status report?”

  Lassarr returned to the bridge at precisely the appointed time. “The half-aarn is past, Shipmaster,” he announced.

  Orofan looked up from the sensor monitor he and Pliij were seated at. “One moment, Voyagemaster,” he said distractedly. “A new factor has entered the situation.”

  “I have it now, Orofan,” Pliij muttered, both long and short tentacles dancing over the instruments. “Medium-frequency electromagnetic radiation, with severe shifting and aberration. I have a recording.”

  “Good. Get to work on it at once. And keep the sensors watching for more.” Orofan stood and went to where Lassarr waited.

  “What is it?” the Voyagemaster asked.

  “Signals of some sort, beamed at us every few aarmis. The natives are trying to communicate.”

  Lassarr frowned. “Interesting. Any known language?”

  “Unfortunately, no. But there’s a great deal of information in each pulse. We may have a preliminary translation in a few aarns.”

  “Good. That’ll help us if we need to negotiate for the Dawnsent’s repair.”