A Talent for War Read online

  Candles watches from a dark-lit corner while young volunteers hold a farewell party. One raises an eye to the middle-aged poet, nods, and Candles inclines his head in silent salute.

  On the night that they learned about Chippewa, a prosperous physician who had never before been seen at the Inner Room, enters, and buys drinks for all. His daughter, Candles learns, has been lost on a frigate.

  In “Rumors of Earth,” the title work from his fourth volume, he describes the effect of reports that the home world is about to intervene. Who, then, he asks, will dare stand aside?

  But it does not happen, and despite Chippewa, despite a hundred small victories, the battered force is pushed relentlessly back, into the final, fatal trap at Rigel.

  The poems are dated, and there is a gap beginning at about the time of Sim’s death, extending for almost a year, during which Candles appears to have written nothing. And then comes his terrible indictment of Earth, and Rimway, and the others, which had delayed so long:Our children will face again their silent fury,

  And they will do it without the Warrior,

  Who walks behind the stars

  On far Belmincour.

  “There is no ‘Belmincour’ listed in the catalogs,” said Jacob. “It is apparently a literary reference, which might mean ‘enthusiastic war,’ or ‘beautiful place of the heart.’ Difficult to be sure: human languages are not very precise.”

  I agreed.

  “Several towns on various worlds,” he continued, “and one city on Earth, share the name. But it is not likely the poet refers to any of these.”

  “Then what?”

  “It has been a subject of dispute. Taken within its context, it appears to refer to a kind of Valhalla. Armand Halley, a prominent Candles scholar, argues that it is a classical reference to a better past, the world where Sim—in his words—would have preferred to live.”

  “Seems odd to use a place name, or a term, that no one understands.”

  “Poets do it all the time, Alex. It allows the reader’s imagination freer play.”

  “Sure,” I grumbled. We were beginning to get some light in the east. And I was weary. But every time I closed my eyes, questions jabbed at me. Olander’s name rang a bell, but I couldn’t remember where (or if) I’d heard of him before.

  And always, the supreme puzzle: what had Hugh Scott and the men of the Tenandrome seen?

  I picked idly through the crystals I’d brought back from the Conciliar Library, selected one, and inserted it into Jacob’s reader.

  “The Spinners, sir?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Scott was supposed to have gone to Hrinwhar. Let’s see what it looked like to Sim.”

  “It’s very late, Alex.”

  “I know. Please run the simulation.”

  “If you insist. To opt out, you need, of course, only remove the headband.” I sat down in the overstuffed chair, took the control packet from the equipment drawer in the coffee table, and inserted the jack into Jacob. “The program has a monitor. Do you wish me to sit in?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.” I pulled the headband into place, and switched it on.

  “Activating,” said Jacob.

  A feminine voice, whiskey-flavored, flat, asked my name.

  “Alex,” I said.

  Alex, close your eyes. When you open them you will be on board the Pauline Stein. Do you wish a detailed review of the war to this point?

  “No, thank you.”

  The Stein will be functioning as the command and control ship during this operation. Do you wish to participate in the ground raid, or do you prefer to ride with the command ship?

  “The command ship,” I answered.

  Alex, you are now on the bridge of the Stein. This program is designed to allow you simply to observe while the battle, as it has been reconstructed from available evidence, plays itself out. Or, if you prefer, we offer other options. You may take command of one of the frigates, or even assume flag responsibility and direct overall strategy, thereby possibly changing history. Which do you prefer?

  “I will watch.”

  An excellent choice, she said.

  I was alone in a forward cockpit with several battle displays. Voices crackled out of hidden speakers. The bridge opened out below me, and I could see occasional movement. A white-bearded, heavy man occupied a central seat. His face was turned away, but I could see the gleam of gold on his uniform. His posture and tone radiated command. The air was filled with voices speaking in hushed, unemotional tones.

  I sat on a swivel chair within a plastic bubble. A dark, amorphous landscape moved beneath us, around us, gloomily illuminated by spasms of electricity. There was no sky, no stars, no steady light. It was a fearful place, and I was glad for the solid reassurance of the ship’s interior, the voices, the consoles, the chairpads. We are in the upper atmosphere of the super gas giant Masipol, said the Monitor. Sixth planet of Windyne. The mission target is Masipol’s eleventh moon, Hrinwhar, which orbits at a range of almost three-quarters of a million kilometers. Although the Ashiyyur do not anticipate an attack, there are major naval units in the area.

  Occasionally, through what I presumed were breaks in heavy clouds, I glimpsed silver and green bands of light, a broad luminous arc that seemed to be traveling with us. Then it was gone, and in the brief glow of its passing, a universal gloom closed in.

  The planetary rings, explained the Monitor. We’re climbing into orbit. They should be completely visible shortly.

  Yes: moments later, shadows leaped from the surreal cloudscape. Wedges of soft radiance, and a dozen glittering belts of ice-hard light emerged.

  It might have been the rainbow bridge of northern European folklore, risen from the mist, joining the horizons, overwhelming the starfields. Scarlet, yellow, and green planks were supported by a wide violet buttress. Blue and silver ribbons heightened the illusion of solidity by twisting round each other.

  A few stars were scattered to the extreme north and south. And two shrunken suns were barely discernible in the glare. Coreopholi and Windyne, said the Monitor. They are known jointly as the Spinners, because both have an extremely high rotation rate. We are on the edge of the Arm, by the way, looking away from the Galaxy. This is the point of Sim’s deepest penetration into Ashiyyurean space.

  Christopher Sim’s force consists of six frigates. And he has a problem: his ships have emerged from hyper within the past eight hours, and the Armstrong units are depleted. Little is known of the Dellacondan propulsion systems, but at best they will require the better part of a day before they can be used again. And he does not have time to wait.

  An order of battle scrolled across my central display: the aliens have one heavy cruiser, two, and possibly three, light cruisers, seven destroyers, and thirteen to sixteen frigates. In addition there are several fleet escort vessels. The heavy cruiser itself is known to be in one of the orbiting docks, from which it can do no damage.

  I knew we’d won at the Spinners, and I knew it had been against heavy odds. But that had been electronic knowledge: now I sat and watched an analysis of enemy firepower that should have utterly discouraged the Dellacondans.

  “What’s it about? What was Sim trying to accomplish?”

  This system attracted his interest for a variety of reasons. It houses a major enemy base, which serves as a center for logistical coordination, communications, intelligence gathering, and long range strategic planning. This facility is believed to be ill-prepared to withstand an attack, both because of its distance from the fighting, and because of Ashiyyurean psychology. At this point the war is still young, and the enemy has not yet grown accustomed to human methods. Warfare among the aliens has traditionally been carried out on a formal, ritualistic basis. Opposing forces are expected to announce their intentions well in advance, draw up on opposite sides of the battle zone, exchange salutes, and, at an agreed-upon moment, commence hostilities. Sim, of course, fights in the classical human mode. Which is to say that he cann
ot be trusted. He ambushes lone warships, strikes supply points, attacks without warning, and, perhaps most outrageous of all, refuses to commit himself to formal battle. In the eyes of the Ashiyyur, he is unethical.

  It’s always the side with the firepower that expects everybody to line up.

  The base is constructed in the center of a crater, and is difficult to detect visually. It is actually an underground city of substantial size. Population at this time is believed to be on the order of eight thousand.

  Sim anticipates that a successful raid here will have highly desirable long range consequences: he expects to gain access to detailed information on enemy warships, tactical capabilities, strategic plans. Furthermore, he hopes to disrupt enemy logistics, possibly compromise communications and cryptosystems, and maybe even carry off a few high-ranking prisoners. But his primary goal is to shatter the myth of Ashiyyurean invulnerability, and thereby encourage some of the worlds who have hung back to join the cause.

  Outside, against the peaceful incandescence of the rings, Sim’s gray wolves swam into view. They were long and tapered and lovely. (What had Leisha Tanner said of them? When she measured her own reaction to these instruments of war, she despaired that any of us would survive.) Clusters of beam and particle weapons projected from a dozen stations. Emblazoned on the prow of each ship was the black harridan, pinions spread in flight, eyes narrowed, claws thrust forward.

  On the inmost vessel, the device stood within a silver crescent: and I could not resist a surge of pride. It was the Corsarius, Sim’s own ship, whose likeness hangs now in Marcross’s brilliant oil in the Hall of the People. (The same print, by the way, that dominated one of Hugh Scott’s walls.) The artist hadn’t done her justice, and I don’t suppose any representation could. She was magnificent: a blue and silver bullet, her sleek hull bristling with weapons clusters and communications pods. A sunburst expanded across her parabolic prow. And she looked capable of damned near anything.

  You can see two other frigates, said the Monitor. They are the Straczynski and the Rappaport. Straczynski has already earned a host of commendations, but she will be destroyed, with all her crew, four days from now during the defense of Randin’hal. Rappaport will be the only known Dellacondan vessel to survive the war. She is currently maintained as the centerpiece of the Hrinwhar Naval Museum on Dellaconda.

  I sat, fascinated by the power and grace of the ships. They were silver and deadly in the cold illumination cast by the two suns. The bridge of the Corsarius spilled yellow light into the void: I could make out figures moving about inside. And the voices on the commlinks changed subtly, grew charged with tension.

  I watched Straczynski lift gradually out of formation. She hovered a few moments, apparently falling behind; and then her engines flared, and she dropped away.

  She is going to take out a communications relay station, said the Monitor. Rappaport will follow directly.

  “Monitor,” I said, “We seem to have only four ships. Where are the other two? And where are the enemy defenses?”

  Two frigates have re-entered linear space in a manner that allows them to approach from a different direction. One of the two, the Korbal, has been altered to put out the electronic “fingerprint” of the Corsarius. Hrinwhar’s defenders have scrambled to attack the intruders.

  “All of them?”

  A few units remain. But the light cruisers are gone!

  I tried to recall the details of the raid on Hrinwhar, and was dismayed at how little I knew, other than that it had marked the first time the Confederates had seized the initiative.

  Korbal and its companion vessel have already taken out a picket, and engaged in a brief exchange of fire with another frigate. This has given the enemy’s intelligence analysts time to draw false conclusions about the identity of their attacker, whom they now believe to be Sim. In addition, Ashiyyurean ships tracking the diversionary force have noted an anomaly in the thrust pattern of the vessel they think to be the Corsarius. They believe that Sim has engine trouble. Their great enemy seems to be helpless.

  In the fragmented chatter of the ship’s intercom, I was able to pick up a running description of the action: “They are still pursuing Korbal toward Windyne. Korbal will stay in the sun to prevent visual inspection.”

  “Straczynski reports Alpha destroyed.”

  Alpha’s a communications relay station, designated on your display, said the Monitor. Sim hopes to cut off all communications between the base and its defenders.

  “They’re not very bright,” I said. “The Ashiyyur.”

  They’re not accustomed to this sort of warfare. It is one of the reasons they hold us in contempt. They don’t expect an opponent to be dishonest. In their view, Sim should come forward, without stealth, without deceit, and fight like a man.

  “They don’t understand war,” I grumbled.

  A new voice, obviously accustomed to command: “Go to attack mode. Prepare to execute Windsong.”

  They would reply that the brutality of armed combat demands a sense of ethics. A person who cheats in matters of life and death is perceived as a barbarian.

  “This is Corsarius: preliminary scan shows a cruiser in the area. It is escorted by two—no, make that three—frigates. Cruiser is Y-class, and is in geosynchronous orbit over base. Two of the frigates appear to be responding to Stracrynski.”

  “Rappaport approaching Beta.”

  “Execute Windsong.”

  Acceleration pressed me gently back into my seat. The cloudscape fell swiftly away. Corsarius rose and arced toward the rings, and rapidly dwindled to a triangle of lights moving against the sky.

  “This is Rappaport. Beta is dead. Communications should be out. ”

  “We are now over the curve of the horizon, within view of enemy scans. Assume that Corsarius and Stein have been sighted.”

  “One frigate on intercept vector. No reaction yet from the cruiser.”

  Targeting information flowed across the screens: schematics of the incoming frigate appeared, rotated. I could hear hatches closing throughout the ship. Below me, all activity seemed to have ceased. I reached up and increased the flow of cool air into the cockpit.

  “Cruiser getting underway.”

  “Corsarius will handle. Stein take the frigate.”

  The lights of Sim’s ship blinked out. We kept on: the enemy vessel appeared on the short range scopes, a black sphere gliding toward us between the stars.

  White light flared on its surface.

  At the same instant, we turned a hard bone-crunching left.

  I’d belted myself down. But I got thrown around pretty well anyway, and I managed to crack myself in the jaw. There was a brief spurt of nausea, and I would have touched the headband for reassurance except that I didn’t dare let go of the webbing until we straightened out.

  “Firing NDL,” said the intercom. A shudder ran through the bulkheads, and lightning squirted toward the oncoming sphere.

  “On track.”

  “Another incoming.” We swung violently in the opposite direction, and dived. I left my stomach behind, and started thinking about terminating. Hrinwhar’s lunar surface rolled suddenly across my field of vision, rose to a vertical, and dropped away.

  “We’ve got the cruiser cold!”

  Those voices are from Corsarius, said the Monitor.

  “Full spread!”

  It sounded encouraging, but we got hit ourselves about then, and the Stein shook until I wondered how in hell it held together. On the bridge, the captain spoke almost casually to his officers as though nothing out of the way was happening.

  A nuclear fireball, silent, blossoming, swept by us. Then: “We got the bastards. They’re tumbling.”

  “Damage Control: report.”

  A cheer down on the deck. “Mutes have lost propulsion.”

  “Forward shield collapsed, Captain. We’re working on it. Have it back in a few minutes.”

  “Straczynski has engaged the other two frigates.”

&nb
sp; “Rappaport, proceed to Straczynski assistance.”

  “Scopes all clear.”

  “Landing party stand by.”

  “Rappaport underway. ETA Straczynski’s position approximately eleven minutes.”

  “The cruiser has broken apart.” Another cheer.

  “Captain, they’ve got nothing left to cover the heavy.”

  Through the plexiglass there was only black sky and pockmarked rock. On my screens, though, I could see it, an enormous illuminated barbell, its lights blinking out in a pathetic effort to avoid detection. It floated on tethers, within the spidery bays of its orbiting dock.

  “Concur, Captain. No sign of tactical support.”

  “Acknowledged. Stein to Command. We have a heavy cruiser here. Permission to attack.”

  “Negative. Do not engage. Prepare to launch the assault teams.”

  Men and equipment were moving through the ship. Sim will lead the ground force personally, the Monitor said.

  I listened to more exchanges, and then the landers were away. Now the two frigates, acting in concert, descended to attack. From my own visit, I recognized the cluster of domes set on the bleak moonscape.

  A beam of pale light cut through the black sky. It appeared to be originating from a point north of the base. “Laser,” said the intercom.

  My displays locked on the source: a pair of dish antennas. We lobbed a plasma weapon of some sort in their general direction. The area erupted in a brilliant slow-motion conflagration, and the lights vanished.

  After the ground assault had got well under way, we climbed back into orbit, where we were joined by Rappaport and Straczynski. It was a nervous time: we were now exceedingly vulnerable, and even I, who knew how it would all come out, waited anxiously, watching for the appearance of the enemy fleet on the scopes, listening to the reports coming back up from the landing force.

  Resistance on the ground gave way quickly. Within ten minutes, Sim’s raiders had broken through the outer defenses, and entered the base proper.

  “Monitor,” I said, “how much of an advantage do the Ashiyyur have in close combat?”