“I’ll be aboard Dahak,” he said flatly. “By myself.”
“Now I say thou shalt not,” she began hotly, then stopped, throttling her anger as he had his. But tension crackled between them, and when he glanced around the holo-image faces of his closest advisors he saw a high degree of discomfort in their expressions. He also saw a lot of support for ’Tanni.
“Look,” he said, “I have to be here. We win or lose on the basis of how well Dahak can run the rest of the flotilla, and communications are going to be hairy enough without me being on a ship with a different time dilation effect.”
It was a telling argument, and he saw its weight darken Jiltanith’s eyes, though she did not relent. Relativity wasn’t a factor under Enchanach Drive, since the ship in question didn’t actually “move” in normal space terms at all. Unfortunately, it was a factor at high sublight velocities, especially when ships might actually be moving on opposing vectors. Gross communication wasn’t too bad; there were lags, but they were bearable—for communication. But Dahak would be required to operate his uncrewed fellows’ computers as literal extensions of himself. At the very best, their tactical flexibility would be badly limited. At worst…
Colin decided—again—not to think about “at worst.”
“Anyway,” he said, “I should be as safe as anybody else.”
“Oh? Without doubt ’twas that very reasoning led thee to forbid all others to share thy duty ’board Dahak?” Jiltanith said with awful irony.
“All right, damn it, so it isn’t exactly the safest place to be! I’ve still got to be here, ’Tanni. Why should I risk anyone else?”
“Colin,” Tamman said, “’Tanni may not be your most tactful officer, but she speaks for all of us. Forgive me, Dahak—” he glanced courteously at the auxiliary interface on one bulkhead “—but you’re going to be a priority target if the Achuultani realize what’s going on.”
“I concur.”
“Thank you,” Tamman said softly. “And that’s my point, Colin. We all know how important your ability to coordinate through Dahak is, but you’re important, too. In your persona as Emperor, and as our friend, as well.”
“Tamman—” Colin broke off and stared down at his hands, then sighed. “Thank you for that—thank all of you—but the fact remains that cold, hard logic says I should be in Command One when we go in.”
“That is certainly true to a point,” Dahak said, and Jiltanith stared at the auxiliary console with betrayed eyes, “yet Senior Fleet Captain Tamman is also correct. You are important, if only as the one adult human Fleet Central will obey without question during the immense reorganization of the post-Incursion period. While Her Majesty can execute that function in the event of your death, she would be acting as regent for a minor child, not as head of state in her own right, which creates a potential for conflict.”
“Are you saying I should risk losing the battle because something might go wrong later?”
“Negative. I am simply listing counter arguments. And, in all honesty, I must add my personal concern to the list. You are my oldest friend, Colin. I do not wish you to risk your life unnecessarily.”
The computer did not often express his human feelings so frankly, and Colin swallowed unexpected emotion.
“I’m not too crazy about it myself, but I think it is necessary. Forget for a moment that we’re friends and tell me what the percentages say to do.”
There was a moment of silence—a very long moment for Dahak.
“Put that way, Colin,” he said at last, “I must concur. Your presence in Command One will increase the probability of victory by several orders.”
Jiltanith sagged, and Colin touched her hand gently in apology. She tried to smile, but her eyes were stricken, and he knew she knew. He’d ordered Dahak not to share his projection of their chance of survival with her, but she knew anyway.
“Wait.” Chernikov’s thoughtful murmur pulled all attention back to him. “We have the time and materials; let us install a mat-trans aboard Dahak.”
“A mat-trans? But that couldn’t—”
“A moment, Colin.” Dahak sounded far more cheerful. “I believe this suggestion has merit. Senior Fleet Captain Chernikov, do I correctly apprehend that you intend to install additional mat-trans stations aboard each of our crewed warships?”
“I do.”
“But the relativity aspects would make it impossible,” Colin protested. “The stations have to be synchronized.”
“Not so finely as you may believe,” Dahak said. “In practice, it would simply require that the receiving ship maintain approximately the same relativistic time. Given the number of crewed vessels available to us, it might well prove possible to select an appropriate unit. I could then transmit you to that unit in the event that Dahak’s destruction becomes probable.”
“I don’t like the idea of running away,” Colin muttered rebelliously.
“Now thou’rt childish, my Colin,” Jiltanith said firmly. “Thou knowest how feel we all towards Dahak, yet thy presence will not halt the missile or beam which would destroy him. How shall thy death make his less dreadful?”
“Her Majesty is correct,” Dahak said, equally firmly. “You would not refuse to evacuate via lifeboat, and there is little difference, except in that your chances of survival are many orders of probability higher via mat-trans. Please, Colin. I would feel much better if you would agree.”
Colin was stubbornly silent. Of course it was illogical, but that was part of the definition of friendship. Yet they were right. It was only the premeditation of the means whereby he would desert his friend that bothered him.
“All right,” he sighed at last. “I don’t like it, but … do it, Vlad.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The dot of Zeta Trianguli Australis burned unchanged, for the fury of its death had not yet crossed the light-years.
Senior Fleet Captain Sarah Meir, promoted when Colin evicted Dahak’s crew, sat on the planetoid Ashar’s command deck and frowned as she watched it, recalling the dark, hopeless years when she and her Terra-born fellows had fought with Nergal’s Imperials against Anu’s butchers. There was no comparison between then and now … except that the days were dark once more and hope was scarce.
Scarce, but not vanished, she reminded herself, and if Colin’s reckless battle plan shocked her, it was its very audacity which gave them a hope of victory. That, and the quality of their ships and handful of crews.
And Dahak. It always came back to Dahak, but, then, it always had. He’d stood sponsor for them all, Earth’s inheritance from the Imperium on this eve of Armageddon. It might be atavistic of her, but Dahak was their totem, and—
“Captain, we have an inbound hyper wake. A big one,” her plotting officer said, and adrenalin flushed through her system.
“Nail it down,” she said, “and fire up the hypercom.” Acknowledgments came back, and she called up Engineering. “Stand by for Enchanach Drive.”
“Yes, ma’am. Core tap nominal. We’re ready to move.”
“Stand by.” She looked back up at Plotting. “Well?”
“We’ve got an emergence, ma’am. Ninety-eight hours, about a light-month short of the vanguard’s emergence locus.”
Sarah frowned. Damned if she would’ve hypered in this close to the “monster nest-killers” the vanguard must have reported! Still, with their piddling communication range, they had to come in fairly close … and a light-month gave them plenty of time to hyper out if bad guys came at them.