WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST
William C. Dietz
ACKNOWLEDGMENT
Many thanks to Jeffrey T. Slotstad for his expert advice concerning the creation, maintenance, and destruction of space elevators. Technical errors, if any, are the exclusive property of the author.
1
Surprise, the pith and marrow of war.
—Admiral of the Fleet Lord Fisher
Standard year 1906
ABOARD THE CONFEDERACY DESTROYER ESCORT DE-11201,THE LANCE, IN HYPERSPACE
An almost palpable sense of tension fi?lled the control room as the Lance prepared to exit hyperspace and enter a solar system where anything could be waiting. As with all Spear-Class ships, the Executive Offi?cer and the navigator sat to either side of the captain within a semicircular enclosure. The rest of the bridge crew were seated one level below in what was often referred to as “the tub.” All wore space suits, with their helmets racked beside them. “Five minutes and counting,” Lieutenant j.g. “Tink” Ross reported, as he eyed the data that scrolled down the screen in front of him.
“Roger that,” Lieutenant Commander Hol Tanaka acknowledged calmly, as he stared at the viewscreen and the blank nothingness of hyperspace beyond. The naval offi?cer had thick black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and a compact body. The Lance was his fi?rst command, and even though the DE was older than he was, Tanaka was proud of both the ship and his crew. “Sound battle stations. . . . Bring primary and secondary weapons systems online. . . . And 2
activate the defensive screens. All Daggers will stand by for immediate launch. Give me a quick scan as we exit hyperspace, followed by a full-spectrum sweep, and a priority-alpha target analysis.”
The ship’s Executive Offi?cer, Lieutenant K.T. Balcom, responded with a pro forma “Aye, aye, sir,” but there was no need to actually do anything, because the orders had been anticipated, and the crew was ready. What couldn’t be anticipated, however, was what the DE would run into as it entered normal space off Nav Beacon CSM-1802. Because even though it was statistically unlikely, there was always the possibility that the Lance would exit hyperspace within missile range of a Ramanthian warship. Which, come to think of it, is exactly what we’re supposed to do, Tanaka thought to himself. So that the rest of the battle group will have time to drop hyper and respond while the bugs clobber us!
The thought brought no sense of resentment. Just a determination to succeed. Not just for the Confederacy, but for Tanaka’s parents, who had been among thousands killed when the bugs glassed Port Foro on Zena II. Then the time for refl?ection was past as the last few seconds ticked away, and DE-11201 entered the Nebor system, which was only a hop-skip-and-a-hyperspace-jump away from the battle group’s fi?nal destination inside the sector of space controlled by the Clone Hegemony. Stomachs lurched as the ship’s NAVCOMP shut the hyperdrive down, and the Lance entered normal space.
What followed took place so quickly that Tanaka, his crew, and the ship’s computers were just beginning to process what was waiting for them when ten torpedoes scored direct hits on the destroyer escort and blew the ship to smithereens. All that remained to mark the point where the ambush had taken place was a steadily expanding constellation of debris and bursts of stray static. There was no jubilation aboard the Sheen vessels that had been positioned around the nav beacon for more than one standard month. Because the formerly free-ranging computer-controlled ships were entirely automated and therefore incapable of emotion.
But crewed or not, the remote-controlled ships made excellent weapons platforms, a fact that was central to Commodore Ru Lorko’s plan. And, as luck would have it, the stern if somewhat eccentric naval offi?cer was not only awake at the precise moment when the Lance was destroyed, but present in the Star Reaper’s small control room as well. Like all Ramanthians the naval offi?cer had big compound eyes, a pair of antennae that projected from the top of his head, a hooked fl?esh-tearing beak, and a somewhat elongated body. It stood on two legs, and was held erect by a hard exoskeleton. Which in Lorko’s case had been holed in battle and patched with a metal plate. A shiny rectangle that had given rise to the nickname, “Old Iron Back.”
There was a burst of joyful pincer clacking that could be heard throughout the ship as the destroyer’s crew celebrated an easy victory. But that came to an end when Lorko spoke over the ship’s intercom system. “Do not be fooled!”
the offi?cer cautioned. “That was the easy part,” he reminded the crew. “It’s possible that the destroyer escort was on a solo mission. But, if this is the moment we have been waiting for, then the DE was little more than the tip of a very long spear. Prepare yourselves and know this: He who fails to do his best will feel the full weight of my pincer!”
And every member of the crew knew that Lorko was not only serious, but fanatically serious, since the commodore, like approximately 20 percent of the Ramanthian offi?cer corps, was a member of the rigid, some said infl?exible Nira (Spirit) cult. A semireligious group determined to live their lives in accordance with the Hath, or true path, which required each adherent to follow a very strict code of behavior. One that equated surrender with cowardice, mercy with treachery, and love for anything other than the Ramanthian race as weakness. Which explained why Lorko, like so many other members of the Nira, had severed his relationships with his mates.
But what wasn’t apparent to the crew was what the straightbacked offi?cer felt deep inside. Which was a tremendous sense of relief and anticipation. Because in order to gain command of the Sheen ships, the carrier Swarm, and half a dozen smaller vessels, Lorko had been forced to go straight to Grand Admiral Imba for approval. Thereby offending a number of superiors as well as risking what had been a successful career on what many considered to be a stupid idea. Because the whole notion of waiting for an enemy convoy to drop out of hyperspace struck many as not only a tremendous waste of time but a poor use of scarce resources. Which was why Lorko had been given exactly thirty standard days in which to try his plan before returning to fl?eet HQ for reassignment. Now, three full days past the end of his allotted time, Lorko had what he had gambled on: a victory. Not a major victory, but a victory nonetheless, which might be suffi?cient to forestall a court of inquiry. Or, as Lorko had just explained to the crew, the Confederacy DE could be the precursor of a much larger force. Which, were he to destroy it, would not only vindicate the naval offi?cer but quite possibly result in a promotion. But with the seconds ticking away, it was time to take action. “You know what to do,” the commodore said to the Star Reaper’s captain. “Do it.”
A good deal of time and computer analysis had been spent coming up with what Lorko and his subordinate offi?cers believed to be the standard intervals employed by Confederacy battle groups as they entered potentially hostile systems. And that number was fi?ve standard minutes give or take thirty seconds. So, given the fact that one minute twenty-six seconds had already elapsed, it was time for the Sheen vessels to open fi?re. Not on a specifi?c target, but on the exact point where the ill-fated DE had left hyperspace. Because according to Lorko’s analysis, that was where the next ship would most likely exit as well. And the next, and the next, until the entire formation lay before him. An assemblage of ships that might be less than, equal to, or larger than Lorko’s modest fl?eet. A threat, but only if the enemy vessels were allowed to respond. So the remotely operated Sheen vessels opened fi?re with their extremely powerful energy cannons, and where their pulses of bright blue light converged, an artifi?cial sun was born. Lorko was committed at that point, because while the Sheen ships could maintain a sustained fi?re for up to eight minutes, their accumulators would have to recharge after that. And while the machine-ships were armed with missiles, they carried a fi?nite number. All of this meant that if the theoretical force arrived later than expected, it might break out of the trap and attack not only the Star Reaper but the more vulnerable Swarm, thereby turning what could have been a magnifi?cent victory into one of the worst naval disasters in Ramanthian history. Lorko would commit suicide, of course, assuming he survived long enough to do so, but it would be humiliating to arrive in the next world carrying such a heavy burden of shame. Nav Point CSM-1802 shimmered within a cocoon of lethal energy as the seconds ticked away.