A Talent for War Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  I.

  II.

  III.

  IV.

  V.

  VI.

  VII.

  VIII.

  IX.

  X.

  XI.

  XII.

  XIII.

  XIV.

  XV.

  XVI.

  XVII.

  XVIII.

  XIX.

  XX.

  XXI.

  XXII.

  XXIII.

  XXIV.

  XXV.

  EPILOGUE

  “Jack McDevitt is that rare species—an SF writer who knows history. Not content with merely developing intriguing ideas and vivid characters, he also writes stories which resonate on multiple levels. A Talent for War, his best novel so far, haunts the memory of the reader and rewards repeated readings.”

  —Athena Andreadis, Ph.D., research scientist and author of

  To Seek Out New Life: The Biology of Star Trek

  Praise for Omega

  “McDevitt has always excelled at creating grand, sweeping narratives built around apocalyptic scenarios, and Omega is no exception. But as in so much of McDevitt’s recent work, the real strength of the narrative lies in its profound evocation of cosmic mysteries, and in its corollary concern for the tiny, nuts-and-bolts details that underlie the largest, most complex enterprises. It is this minute attention to a variety of disciplines—linguistics, faster-than-light travel, artificial intelligence, the aesthetics of alien art forms, the sexual, political, and economic configuration of non-human societies—that grounds the book, providing a superstructure strong enough to support the imaginative flights that follow. This latest amalgam of hard SF and humanist concerns is McDevitt at his best, and that is very good indeed.”

  —The Washington Post

  “Having mastered the big, sprawling adventure stories called space opera in books like Chindi, McDevitt extends the form in this feel-good SF novel that earns its hopeful conclusion . . . McDevitt is very good at imagining strange challenges—and at picturing humans coping when things don’t work out as planned.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “McDevitt forges out of ethical dilemmas a plot as gripping as any action fan could want—not that it is lacking in action, hardware, and complex characterization. A felicitous concoction that rather recalls Gregory Benford’s and David Brin’s stuff, and surely will please their fans as well as McDevitt’s.”

  —Booklist

  “McDevitt excels in combining hard science, gripping adventure, and engaging characters into a story rich in detail and filled with action. Set in the same far future as Chindi and Deepsix, this taut tale of SF suspense belongs in most collections.”

  —Library Journal

  Praise for Chindi

  “His most fascinating novel yet . . . guaranteed to exhilarate the reader.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  “Jack McDevitt is a master of describing otherworldly grandeur . . . in this sweeping novel of suspense and spectacle.”

  —The Denver Post

  “Mixes classic space opera with taut suspense . . . This is the kind of good-old-fashioned sense-of-wonder science fiction that launched the genre.”

  —The Orlando Sentinel

  “An exciting tale of alien archeology.”

  —The Philadelphia Inquirer

  “A fun read.”

  —The Florida Times-Union

  “You find yourself turning the pages to see what happens next. For McDevitt, it’s the plausibility of his facts that brings alive the possibility of his fiction.”

  —The Kansas City Star

  “A space opera with plenty of action and unexpected developments in almost every sense. McDevitt has created a realistic space-faring universe . . . that is just waiting to be explored.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “McDevitt’s narrative grows cumulatively more gripping and achieves a whole new level of visionary and conceptual grandeur. The extended climax . . . is both plausible and suspenseful, and brings the novel to a resonant, high-adrenaline conclusion. All of McDevitt’s many virtues are on full display in Chindi: the clean, clear style, the potent evocation of cosmic mysteries, the skillfully integrated, easily assimilated scientific background, the easy humor, the sympathetic portraits of believable people under relentless pressure. In his last few novels, McDevitt has come into his own as a writer of hard, humane science fiction thriller, and Chindi is one of his very best.”

  —Locus

  “An old-fashioned tale of interstellar adventure. Reminiscent of Arthur C. Clarke’s Rendezvous with Rama.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The puzzles wrapped in explanations within mysteries and the cliffhanging resolution are well up to McDevitt’s previous high standards.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “McDevitt will grab you by the throat of your curiosity and keep a firm hold until the final chapter.”

  —Science Fiction Chronicle

  “McDevitt is an inventive and satisfying writer.”

  —Analog

  “McDevitt continues his lovingly detailed exploration of interstellar reconnaissance and alien contact . . . this one is really quite splendid.”

  —Booklist

  “First-rate adventure and smooth, well-plotted storytelling . . . superior.”

  —Library Journal

  “Chindi returns to the days when the most important aspect of science fiction was an appeal to the reader’s sense of wonder.”

  —Steven Silver Reviews

  Praise for Jack McDevitt and his previous novels

  “One of the most satisfying writers in the field.”

  —Charles Sheffield

  “You should definitely read Jack McDevitt.”

  —Gregory Benford

  “Reading Eternity Road is like hearing a favorite piece of music played by a skilled artist.”

  —The San Francisco Examiner

  “Not since Arthur C. Clarke’s Rendezvous with Rama has discovery of artifacts of alien intelligence been treated so skillfully.”

  —The Baltimore Sun

  Novels by Jack McDevitt

  THE HERCULES TEXT

  ANCIENT SHORES

  ETERNITY ROAD

  MOONFALL

  INFINITY BEACH

  TIME TRAVELERS NEVER DIE

  The Academy (Priscilla Hutchins) Novels

  THE ENGINES OF GOD

  DEEPSIX

  CHINDI

  OMEGA

  ODYSSEY

  CAULDRON

  The Alex Benedict Novels

  A TALENT FOR WAR

  POLARIS

  SEEKER

  THE DEVIL’S EYE

  ECHO

  Collections

  STANDARD CANDLES

  SHIPS IN THE NIGHT

  OUTBOUND

  CRYPTIC: THE BEST SHORT FICTION OF JACK McDEVITT

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  A TALENT FOR WAR

  Portions of chapter 15 orignally appeared in the March 1988 issue of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine under the title “Sunrise.”

  Portions of chapters 9, 22, 23, and 24 are adapted from “Dutchman,” which appeared in Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, February 1987.

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / February 1989

  Copyright © 1989 by Jack McDevitt.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-52416-9

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Joseph H. Parroff, Rev. L Richard Casavant,

  m.s., and Rev. Robert E. Carson, O. Praem.,

  to mark debts I can never pay.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am indebted for the technical assistance of James H. Sharp of the Albert Einstein Planetarium at the Smithsonian Institution. I’d also like to express my appreciation to Lewis Shiner for his suggestions and time; to Ginjer Buchanan, for her assistance with the manuscript; and to Maureen McDevitt, whose presence is felt throughout Christopher Sim’s world.

  PROLOGUE

  THE AIR WAS heavy with incense and the sweet odor of hot wax.

  Cam Chulohn loved the plain stone chapel. He knelt on the hard bench and watched the crystal water dribble across Father Curry’s fingers into the silver bowl held by the postulant. The timeless symbol of man’s effort to evade responsibility, it had always seemed to Chulohn the most significant of all the ancient rituals. There, he thought, is the essence of our nature, displayed endlessly throughout the ages for all who can see.

  His gaze lingered in turn on the Virgin’s Alcove (illuminated by a few flickering candles) and the Stations of the Cross, on the simple altar, on the hewn pulpit with its ponderous Bible. It was modest by the opulent standards of Rimway and Rigel III and Taramingo. But somehow the magnificence of the architecture in those sprawling cathedrals, the exquisite quality of the stained glass windows, the satisfying bulk of marble columns, the sheer angelic power of the big organs, the sweeping choir lofts: it all got in the way. Here, halfway up a mountainside, he could look out over the river valley that the early fathers, in a burst of enthusiasm, had dedicated to St. Anthony of Toxicon. There was only the river, and the ridges, and the Creator.

  Chulohn’s visit to the Abbey was the first by a presiding bishop (so far as he could determine) during the entire existence of the community. Albacore, this snowbound, cold world at the farthest extreme of the Confederacy’s influence, was home to few other than the fathers. But it was not difficult—enjoying its massive silence, listening for the occasional distant rumble of a rockslide, taking the cold vigorous air into his lungs—to understand how it was that it had housed, at one time or another, the finest scholars the Order had known. Martin Brendois had written his great histories of the Time of Troubles in a cubicle just above the chapel. Albert Kale had completed his celebrated study of transgalactic strings, and Morgan Ki had composed the essays that would link his name irrevocably to classic economic theory.

  Yes, there was something about this place that called forth greatness.

  After mass, he walked along the parapet with Mark Thasangales, the Abbot. They were wrapped in coats, and their breath hung before them. Thasangales had much in common with St. Anthony’s Valley: no one in the Order could remember when he had been young. His features were as uncompromising and lined as the limestone walls and snowswept crags. He was a tower of faith: Chulohn could not imagine those dark blue eyes beset by the doubts that harried ordinary men.

  They were reminiscing about better times—as middle-aged men who have not seen each other for a long time will—when the Abbot shook off the past. “Cam,” he said, raising his voice slightly to get above the wind, “you’ve done well.”

  Chulohn smiled. Thasangales was talented: his capability for raising and managing funds in no way diminished his certifiable aura of sanctity. He was a superb administrator and a persuasive speaker, precisely the sort of man to represent the Church and the Order. But he had always lacked ambition. And so he had returned to St. Anthony’s when the opportunity offered. And he had stayed a lifetime. “The Church has been good to me, Mark. As it has been to you.” They looked down from the mountaintop on which the Abbey stood. The floor of the valley was brown with approaching winter. “I’ve always thought I would have liked to come here for a couple of years. Maybe teach theology. Maybe just put my life in order.”

  “The Church needed you for more important things.”

  “Perhaps.” Chulohn studied his ring, the emblem of his office, and sighed. “I traded a great deal for this. Maybe the price has been too high.”

  The Abbot neither agreed nor disagreed, but merely stood his ground, awaiting his bishop’s pleasure. Chulohn sighed. “You don’t really approve of the path I’ve taken.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Your eyes did.” Chulohn smiled.

  A sudden burst of wind raked the trees, and snowflakes flew. “First of the year,” Thasangales announced.

  St. Anthony’s Valley is located in the high country of the smaller of Albacore’s two continents. (There are those who say the small, compact world consists almost exclusively of high country.) But, in Chulohn’s eyes, it was one of God’s special places, a corrugated land of forest and limestone and snowcap. The Bishop had grown up in this kind of country, on rugged Dellaconda, whose sun was too distant to be seen from St. Anthony’s.

  Standing in that ancient wilderness, he felt emotions he had not known for thirty years. The thoughts of youth. Why was it they were so much more real than anything that would follow after? How had it happened that he’d fulfilled his earliest ambitions, had in fact far exceeded them, and found it all so unsatisfying?

  He drew his coat around him, fending off a sudden icy gust.

  It was disquieting here, among the cold still peaks. Somehow, in a way he couldn’t grasp, they challenged the warm comfort of the tiny chapel. There was a movement back home, a group of zealots who pretended to speak for Christ, who wanted him to sell off the churches, and give the proceeds to the poor. But Chulohn, who loved the bleak places of the worlds because they were fearful, understood that churches are shelters against the intimidating majesty of the Almighty.

  He watched the snow gathering force.

  Several seminarians boiled out of the refectory and hurried noisily toward the gym. The sudden activity shook Chulohn from
his reverie. He glanced at Thasangeles. “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then let’s see the rest of the grounds.”

  Little had changed since the Bishop had been ordained here: stone grottos and sweeping lawns and gray somber church buildings compressed the decades. Had the midnight beer raids on the refectory really been half a lifetime ago? Was it really so long since the forays into Blasinwell and the innocent flirtations with the young women there? Since those naked dips into mountain pools? (My God, how did it happen he could still feel the delicious bite of cool currents along his flanks?)

  It had all seemed deliciously sinful then.

  The stone chip walkways, which were covered lightly by snow, crunched pleasantly underfoot. Chulohn and Thasangales circled the library. Its antenna, mounted at the peak of the sharply sloping roof, turned slowly, tracking one or another of the orbiters. The flakes were wet in Chulohn’s eyes, and his feet were getting cold.