Thirty-One

The Champlain was a wreck. Two cannon blasts had torn through vital parts of the ship simultaneously. The anti-personnel rounds had done some structural damage, but the energy levels of the radiation had been precisely tuned to slaughter the crew. Because the ship was far from destroyed, the remaining crew, with luck, could patch the holes, make the ship spaceworthy again, and perhaps survive long enough to be rescued.

It had been the fleet’s flagship; the captain had hosted the Commodore of the fleet, as well as the military commander for the cluster. Once, it had a full complement of crew and marines, plus hand-picked staff for intelligence and communications. Now, it was a sarcophagus. Flight engineers would describe it as a ship slowly filling with vacuum. The falling pressure would kill those that had not been slaughtered by the high-temperature radiation.

Two of the supporting frigates had been damaged in the initial attack, and subsequently collided with each other. The collision had made a very bad situation much worse. After losing a connecting gallery in the initial attack, one frigate then lost a crew compartment in the collision; the bulkheads had sealed, isolating parts of the ship. The other frigate has lost all of its gravity foils, and was falling into the nearby star, completely out of control. Scouts scrambled to rescue the crew.

The third frigate attending the Champlain tried to move in to a position to rescue the top commanders. The initial damage had put the Champlain into a tumble, but incapacitated crew was occupied trying to stop the leaks. The frigate, with some care, had computed a course that would match the tumble, allowing a hard dock and the transfer of survivors. As they closed with the Champlain, the Henry Base Gun Two spotted them as a working ship. The gun slowly traversed to match course.

The frigate, in following the tumbling destroyer, could not bring its guns to bear effectively on the cannon. The frigate sensor crew marked the traversal of the gun; it was the second-hand of the clock that counted down to their execution. They fired wildly, hoping that they might intimidate or distract the crew of the gun.

The gun’s ionized plasma tore through the frigate’s shielding, causing catastrophic metal fatigue and killing everyone in the path of the blast immediately. Parts of the stream continued through the frigate and into the destroyer, causing even more damage to the already injured ship.

From the shadow of the cannon, a number of Core Planet scout ships erupted. They pounced on the damaged frigate, strafing it with even more damaging fire. After two more passes, the scouts planned to force entry into the ship and finish its destruction.

❖

Major General William Johnson had left the Lyman base staff with a bewildering list of stores, equipment and materiel required by the Henry base. All of it had to be ordered from other planets, shipped to the Lyman base, stored temporarily until it could be organized for transport to the Henry base.

The bridge crew on Lyman base was completely focused on managing the freighter traffic to and from the base. Their current standing orders required careful examination of incoming ships for Cephalopod contact. The intelligence community was trying to understand the nature of Cephalopod alliances and enemies.

Captain Racinowski was the deck officer of the day. He was known as “Rat Man” even though was large and slow-moving. Racinowski liked to correlate the previous shift’s arrival and departure counts with the number of docking piers actually in use. It was a half hour of low-value busy work that eased him into the routine on the bridge. Also, when he found discrepancies, he felt that his attention to detail reinforced his fitness to be the senior officer.

The chatter of the traffic control was a quiet contrapuntal chant that was the background of their working life. The arrival and departure counts looked like they would balance properly when the Rat Man noticed a small trace of dissonance in the background chatter. He looked up from his clipboard to see the source.

One of the sensor operators was looking around at the adjacent displays in obvious confusion. Rat Man set aside the counts and walked over to see what was interrupting the orderly chorus of the bridge.

“Captain,” the crewmember reported, leaning back in his seat, “I think I see shooting at Henry base.”

Rat Man looked at the other displays for a moment. Mentally, he ticked off the reasons why this was unlikely: Henry base was a tremendous distance away; there was an intervening star system; it was a dust and debris system, making all sensor readings very obscure; it was incoherent propagation, not the coherent wave function of a ship in transit or transmission of signals; the biggest reason of all was that Lyman base had their freighter full of critical cannon parts parked nearby, waiting for orders to send them to Henry base.

“Shooting?” Rat Man asked.

The crewmember leaned over his display, and made some adjustments to sharpen up the image.

“I think it’s our plasma cannons,” the crewmember said. “Five or six, firing simultaneously.”

Rat Man looked down at the sensor, and saw the shimmering echoes of a vast, coherent ionic discharge coming from the right piece of the sky. The crewmember dialed in the cannon filters; as soon as they were in place, the signal dropped away to nothing.

“Plus surface guns, sir,” said the crewmember sitting next to him.

Rat Man sighed. He was too old for a shooting war. He was just a traffic controller. He reached over and switched on the communications to the base senior commander.

“Colonel, post a code yellow alert. The Outer Rim appears to be attacking Henry base.” There would be a long pause while this was sent through the network to the personal communicator of the senior officer in charge. Rat Man used the time to start reassigning the crew. He set one member to counting shots, getting accurate measurements; he set another to pulling the recordings to see when the first shot was fired. He set a third to trying to locate any communication signals buried in the background noise of space. He told the rest to stop traffic completely until further notice.

The call came back from Sims, the senior officer, with the expected requests for some kind of positive, independent confirmation. Rat Man asked for an hour to gather data. Sims gave him twenty minutes; Rat Man only needed ten. He hated the game, but played it well.

❖

Eyre had reduced his rate of fire to avoid damaging his gun. The discharge was a tremendous strain, as was the charging cycle. He was fortunate that it didn’t take too many shots to put the Outer Rim fleet into confusion. There was a general retreat and regrouping of the Outer Rim ships. Then the remaining Core ships began forming up near the Henry Base. The battle would change from bombardment to ship-to-ship action, requiring considerably more care in target selection.

While the Core fleet formed up, Eyre kept the cannons firing at any Outer Rim ship that slipped into range. The Outer Rim fleet may have retreated, but it remained active, and very dangerous. Eyre knew that they would start to work around the guns, looking for vulnerabilities in the gun placements. With care, they could, eventually, wear down the guns.

❖

Larry Drover had shaped several alternative courses back to Henry base. He was sure, however, that he couldn’t get the damaged Outer Rim scout onto any of those courses. The ship was too heavily loaded and badly damaged to make the trip. He was not sure of the state of the life support systems, either. There were too many unknowns, too many things that were certain to go wrong.

“Come on baby,” he said to the ship. “Just a little more.” 

Whiting was still sitting at the weapons console. The guns no longer worked on the scout. Either they were out of ammunition, or some critical component had failed. It was hard to be sure without a thorough examination. Some parts of the ship had been damaged, and the bulkheads had sealed automatically. They weren’t sure that they could even leave the bridge.

Whiting leaned over and put her arm around Larry’s shoulders. She could feel his tension. He was hunched over his console, his hands shaking as he tried to get the ship to respond.

“You’re doing great,” she said. It was not a cheap motivational tribute; she had seen marine pilots unable to fly a ship with so much damage. “What do we have for fuel?”

Larry glanced around for a moment, he brought up a display that was not encouraging. In order to do the basic math, he had to stop his search for Outer Rim ships pursuing him. It was hard to switch his focus to anything other than the enemy.

“Has our vent rate increased?” Mo asked.

That stopped Larry cold. He was having trouble doing a straight line calculation. If the vent rate was increasing, the hole was being torn open, the distance they could cover on the remaining fuel was falling. That reduced their effective range, and put even more pressure on him to get the ship to safety.

Larry could see where Mo was headed; they really couldn’t get anywhere further than the desolate rock in the dust and debris cloud. This would expose them to a ground battle between Outer Rim and Core forces.

“I don’t know,” Larry muttered. “We don’t really have a lot of choice, do we?” 

Natalie leaned closer, putting her head against his shoulder.

“Half the fleet’s down there. We’ll rendezvous with them and join the surface defense.” It was, to Natalie, the only choice. It put her back in contact with the Marines, their only salvation. To Larry, it put them in harm’s way; when it was time to evacuate, he was only a civilian and would be abandoned.

“I don’t want to get shot at,” he said, empty of any sound, logical reasons for staying in space.

“Maybe we shouldn’t have come back to this rock,” she said quietly.

She sighed, looking for a resolve she barely felt. She wasn’t sure what she’d accomplished. Her scouting mission had failed when she believed Dieskau’s assertion that he would attack Lyman. She couldn’t see how Dieskau could have been so absolutely convincing while having a secret plan to attack Henry, and she couldn’t imagine anyone who could change Dieskau’s attack from Lyman to Henry at the last minute. Her attempt to turn the ambush into an orderly retreat seemed to have worked, but she didn’t know if Henry base had responded. She would never know, trapped here on this desolate rock. Even if she got back to General Johnson, her role in this horrifying mess would be ambiguous.

On the balance, Larry had done everything he could to keep her alive. He’d saved her from the ambush; he’d flown the Core Scout until it was disabled. He’d flown the unfamiliar Outer Rim scout until that ship was almost wrecked out from under them. He had a huge reserve of skills. Even if he was annoying, he was successful and competent; she didn’t dare ask for anything more. She realized that should have offered him some support, instead of threats and intimidation. She had secured the ship for him. He had flown it for her. As a team, they might be able to work through this and survive long enough to get rescued.

“We’re here,” she said, sitting up straight at her console. “We’ll get through this, too.” She glanced over at him; he was looking at her closely. “I’m sorry about the gun business,” she added quietly.

Larry leaned over and put his head on her shoulder. He sighed, relaxing visibly. His hands dropped off the console and fell onto his lap. He massaged his face for a moment.

“You must have been desperate,” he said quietly.

Natalie sighed. It felt good to relax, even for just a moment. He was warm, alive and real. He wasn’t a threat, or a concealed threat, or a possible problem. He was a pilot who had done everything she wanted.

“No. I was scared. Johnson had me in his sights. I panicked and took it out on you. It was a mistake; we’re better as a team.”

The ship shifted slightly. Larry glanced up at a display to be sure it was just gravity increasing as they closed with the planet.

“Could we,” Larry started and paused. He had doubts about asking anything from her. But with her leaning on his shoulder, her arm draped across the back of his seat, he decided to ask anyway. “You know, could we see each other socially? You know, when I have a delivery out here again. Or something.”

Natalie laughed. Larry had never heard her laugh before.

“After this? Dating seems a little too low-key. We should just get married.” She said it with her usual matter-of-fact determination. To Larry, it sounded like and order, and it was up to him to work out the details. He sat up in his seat to he could turn around and look at her.

“I mean,” she stammered, “if you want to.” She might have been blushing. “Did that sound like I was giving orders?”

“No ma’am,” Larry said.

He glanced over at Mo; it had slumped down on its table and faded to an odd color, probably from exhaustion. It looked like a kind of cowering posture. Larry sighed and stretched up straight. He changed the angle of the console seat to force him to sit back a bit.

“You still with us, Mo?”

Mo stirred around a bit. “Are we not great fighters?” Mo replied. The listless stirring revealed the truth underpinning the synthesized voice booming through the ship’s intercom.

“Okay, chief, can you rig this for gravity?”

“Do we know Outer Rim scout ships?” Mo asked. “Are we rated crew only Core Planets medium freight?”

“Great,” Larry said. “Do what you can; keep looking for the ground tackle.” 

Whiting reached over and touched his hand. Her fingers were warm and dry. His hands were still cold and wet from sweat. Her touch was calm and confident. He found relief; knowing she would make the right decisions about where to land and what to do once they landed. He could relax and focus on flying, leaving the surface details to her. It was a comfort to know that they were able to share the burden of survival.

❖

The force defending the Lyman base was only a frigate, two small brigs and an odd collection of scouts. It was enough to secure a base against an isolated Cephalopod raid; it was barely enough to show the Outer Rim that this was Core Planets territory.

Colonel Sims had done well under William Johnson. He had purchased the rank of lieutenant, but had been promoted to colonel. He was eligible to be a general by seniority, but the Lyman base just wasn’t big enough to justify the rank of general. Sims, however, was planning on the expansion of Lyman base, and his eventual elevation to general.

When Captain “Rat Man” Racinowski laid out the data, Colonel Sims had to admit that the probabilities of a battle were very high. Rat Man had used just about every tool at his disposal in the brief time allotted to him to gather data. Unlike many officers, Racinowski was intimate with the men and equipment under his command. He’d personally adjusted filter settings and stared at displays to be sure that it was Core Planets cannon fire.

Sims had not worked closely with Racinowski before this. He knew him well enough, but had never seen him in action. When Sims had asked for more information, Rat Man didn’t call in one of his crew. He knew the readings, ranges and bearings off the top of his head. Sims was impressed by Rat Man’s performance.

“How large a force?” Sims asked.

Racinowski peered at Sims for a moment, his expression falling to one of sudden doubt and confusion.

“I’m not sure how big our force was at Henry base,” Rat Man stammered.

Sims wondered what had wrecked Rat Man’s confidence. Sims could see that he had strayed into an area where Rat Man was not prepared.

“Their force. Make a bet; how many of them are we shooting at?” 

Rat Man fumbled around for a moment, patting pockets and looking very lost. After checking his entire uniform, he looked around and saw a folder full of printed notes and a small computer on top of that. Sims looked at the notes, also. The folder was crammed with scraps of paper. Rat Man picked up the folder, opened it, and started shuffling the papers haphazardly. It was a complete contrast from the confident Rat Man of only moments ago.

Sims couldn’t see everything in the folder, but he could see that the hard copies of images, and displays had scrawled notes in margins and on the backs. It was a complete mess of raw data. It showed an underlying undisciplined disorganization that shook Sim’s confidence in the results.

Rat Man flipped over a report of some kind and read a note for a while.

“We counted,” Rat Man started then stopped, still peering at his report. “We counted the,” he started again and looked up at Sims, lost. “What do you call it?” Rat Man asked; then said, “Spectral signatures.”

Sims nodded. He carefully maintained a very dour, almost sad expression when listening to briefings. He liked to wait to the end without showing any preferences or opinions of his own.

“We counted less than a dozen gun spectral signatures,” Rat Man announced. Rat Man was suddenly complete confidence again. “We’re still analyzing the recordings, but we think we saw some ships firing before we started firing, but haven’t seen those signatures since.”

Sims looked at the random pile of scribbled notes. He realized he would have to make a difficult decision based on scribbled recollections on the edges of torn scraps of paper. It made it easy to keep his sad face on. Sims didn’t know that some of Rat Man’s notes were scribbled on desk-tops and consoles in the sensor bay.

“You’re saying the odds are good that we silenced some of their ships during the first shots fired?”

Rat Man looked up at him with an odd joy. “I should get you the recording of the first shots. We think it was six or eight guns all firing at once! You should see the interference noise spikes: off the scale.”

Sims sat back in his chair for a moment. The picture was becoming clearer. The Outer Rim had attacked Henry, and Henry had fired back, silencing the Outer Rim ships. The force at Henry was large, the base well-defended. There were two scenarios that Sims would put bets on: overwhelming force or bad intelligence. If the Outer Rim had overwhelming force, they might try to assault the base. That kind of force would have been impossible to conceal, so it was the less likely scenario. If the Outer Rim was mistaken about the level of readiness, they may have attacked, thinking the base lightly defended.

While the official military doctrine left to Sims the question of how large a force he should commit for the relief of Henry base, his fleet was so tiny that he had no choice except to send all of his ships. He had a number of fixed cannon, so the base would have some defense without the ships. It appeared that the Core Planet’s plan to push the Rim out of this cluster had gone terribly wrong; they were now fighting to keep their position in the cluster. It was a very safe bet that the Outer Rim had no reserves to pounce on an undefended Lyman base.

His communicator buzzed. Racinowski stared at it. Sims saw that it was intelligence; he put them on the speaker so Rat Man could hear.

“Sims,” Sims said. “You’re on speaker with Racinowkski.” “Hey Rat Man, Daddy-O here,” intelligence said. It was Lieutenant D’Addio.

“What have you got?” Sims asked.

“Stragglers from an ambush,” Daddy-O announced with some pride.

“Ambush?” Sims and Rat Man asked.

“Ambush,” Daddy-O said. “I’d say that the Outer Rim caught some of our ships in the dust and debris system, midway to Henry.”

Sims tried to take surprise off his face and resume looking sad.

Rat Man frowned. “When?”

“A day or more,” Daddy-O replied. “It would have been all close combat, small ship weapons. I doubt you’d have seen it from here.”

Rat Man looked relieved. Sims recognized that same edge of glee that Colonel Williams had when he was right and everyone else was wrong. Sims often thought of D’Addio as someone who would eventually replace Williams in the command structure of the Core Planets. The association was ironic, since D’Addio would be the first to announce officially that Williams has been killed.

Sims said, “Thanks,” and turned off the intercom. He turned to Rat Man. “That’s pretty much that. I guess it’s time to mount ‘em up and move ‘em out.”

Rat Man nodded and started gathering up his notes and scraps and jamming them into his tattered folder. Sims stood up; he needed to give acting orders that would put Rat Man in charge of the base while he was gone; he needed to form up his tiny fleet for rescue and repair work; he needed to commandeer all of the empty freighters on the base, which would mean activating all of the MP’s necessary to arrest the freighters that objected. Sims was excited, almost enthusiastic; but he kept a focus on moving slowly and deliberately.

Thirty

Eyre was not comfortable leading a gun crew. He was an engineer. He had assembled the inventory of parts and skills. He had planned the training of the crews, the construction of the guns, the sighting and calibration. He had been there through the “first fire” procedure; where failure would kill a huge number of people, and destroy large, complex and valuable Core Planets assets. He had toasted the success of his engineering team during the commissioning of the guns.

Eyre had done quite a bit of research into Outer Rim fortifications. He was not the most knowledgeable expert on fortifications. He was barely competent in the mechanics of assembling the vast guns. However, in spite of his lack of sophistication, he had brought the two elements together for the first time in Core Planets military history.

Major General Johnson had understood Eyre’s plan. Once he started building Henry base, the potential shift in power had been so intimidating that the Outer Rim had given Dieskau permission to attack. Eyre’s simple idea had sent a ripple of fear right to the top of the Outer Rim’s leadership. The presence of the heavily armed and armored Henry base so close to the Outer Rim’s Carillon base had shifted the balance of power.

“They’re in range, sir,” the gun one sensor crew said.

Eyre glanced at the display to be completely sure that there were no mistakes. The proximity alarm had been silenced, but the display showed the first of the Outer Rim ships pursuing the Core Planets retreat.

“Hold,” Eyre said. “Patch me through to the other, umm, commanders.” There was a standard order, but for a moment, Eyre was not sure if he was saying the right thing.

When he heard the communicator channel chime, he said, “Wait till every ship’s in the kill zone.” That should have been enough, but Eyre suspected that the other gun commanders might not remember the whole plan. “We fire for, umm, personnel kills,” he said. “Just slaughter,” he added, hoping this was clear enough for every commander. Eyre didn’t want to say it; he didn’t agree with Phineas, but he knew that a single-minded determination was sometimes more successful than the right approach.

The response from the other commanders was a silent “acknowledge.” The six operating guns would wait and fire as one on the Outer Rim fleet; their plan hinged on the assumption that the pursuers wouldn’t waste the time on anything other than chasing the straggling Core ships right up to the base.

The waiting was the worst part of combat.

“They’ve started to advance sir,” the sensor operator said.

The leading ships had paused, waiting for the Champlain to catch up and lead the charge to the base. That was good, as it would expose the huge ship to cannon fire during the first onslaught. If they were lucky, that would break their morale as soon as possible. If they started to retreat, Eyre hoped to switch away from the horrible antipersonnel loads.

“Hold fire,” Eyre reminded his gun crew. “Power levels at minimum.” In the cramped fire control deck, he heard the quiet grunts of assent.

If they appeared dead or inattentive, they would be better bait.

Eyre saw that there was some shooting going on at the outer-most gun. One of the frigates was firing as it drifted past gun six. Eyre couldn’t be sure, but it looked like they had gone against his plan and powered up an active targeting system. The gun crew had probably panicked, wondering at the size of the Outer Rim fleet, and tried to illuminate the entire fleet. Eyre had left explicit instructions for each gun to report as the fleet went by so that they would have as complete a picture as possible without using active sensors.

“Gun six, here,” Eyre heard over the communicator. “We’re taking heat, sir.” Eyre wanted to say, cynically, “I’m not surprised;” but he knew that this would not help the men being fired on.

“Kill your sensors, six,” Eyre replied. “Act, umm, dead.” Eyre tried to make it sound like a new idea. It was, however, the basic plan he had communicated to all of the gun commanders.

“Gut it out, six,” one of the other guns said. “We’re with you.” Eyre wondered who had chimed in. It might have been gun five. The fun crew’s mutual support and encouragement was essential. He was supposed to reprimand them for undisciplined chatter, but this was helpful.

“Gun two. We’ve got Squids,” came another voice. “Squids moving in” Someone on the fire control deck muttered something about it being crowded as a squid picnic. This was apt, Eyre, thought, grinning. He knew that Phineas would have brought down his almighty wrath on someone making jokes at a time like this.

The ship rocked, a muffled ‘whump’ reverberated throughout the ship. They’d taken their first hit. With another whump, the ship jolted suddenly, knocking pens, cups and loose equipment onto the deck. Eyre knew their armor would hold for several more shots like that. He glanced over at the display: their attacker was probably the frigate moving ahead of the Champlain, firing on each gun as it flew past.

The ship jolted again while Eyre was looking at the display. The frigate had hit him three times in three different places. As long as they fired indiscriminately, he was safe; concentrated fire would quickly open holes in their armor.

“This is Gun one. We’re taking heat, too,” Eyre replied to all of the guns. “No squids, here.”

He stared hard at the display, trying to count the ships. With the sensors on passive reception only, the resolution was bad, and the refresh rate was very slow. The image changed in jumps, instead of a smooth progression of images. The computer couldn’t interpolate intermediate positions well enough to make the situation clear.

“I’ve got four squids chewing up shields,” someone reported. It sounded like gun five.

Eyre wasn’t sure what to do about Cephalopod close assault tactics. The gun armor would hold them off for a while. Once the squids got too close, the guns could no longer be aimed successfully, or even fired safely. Each gun had a small compliment of Marines, but a determined Cephalopod assault would be fatal to a gun.

The ship jolted, almost knocking Eyre out of his seat. A few alarm indicators went on. The annunciator said nothing.

“Squids sir, all around us,” the sensor operator reported.

Eyre glanced down at his computer. He’d put in some simple parameters for a propagation equation, figuring in the distance and masses of the dust and debris star system and the Henry base star systems. The bulk of the fleet should be arriving shortly. Eyre tapped the display to make the current time more prominent. His predication was remarkably accurate. He decided to avoid panic and give the orders precisely according to his initial predictions.

“We’re still holding,” Eyre said on the command channel.

There was a long moment of quiet. The firing had moved beyond the idle guns to the base itself. Eyre watched the clock, his hands beating out the final seconds, as if he were the conductor of time itself.

When the clock ran down, Eyre gave the final downbeat and said, “Full power! Heat her up!”

The orders rang around the gun’s fire control deck. The targeting systems were energized, revealing the entire Outer Rim fleet. The power supply started its grinding sound; the ship’s frame began to creak as it changed shape under the influence of the generators.

Once the generators were past their priming stage, everyone had to shout to be heard on the command deck.

“Target selection, sir?” the gun focus crew bellowed.

Eyre peered at the display for a moment to confirm the Outer Rim’s line of battle. The Champlain, a vast destroyer, led the assault.

“The destroyer,” Eyre said, pointing at the display.

Commands echoed around the bridge, shouted over the roaring of the power supply.

“What about the squids, sir?” the sensor crewmember asked.

Eyre was not completely sure what they would do. He was, however, hoping that they were intimidated by Core Planets weapons. He needed to project confidence to his crew.

“They’ll run,” Eyre said. “You watch.”

The roaring had long ago reached the peak volume. However, it also increased in frequency. As it did, the power spectrum spread out, the volume decreased as the pitch increased. At full power, one still had to speak loudly and clearly, but the worst of the noise was over.

“Heaters to full, sir,” the gun launch crew reported.

This was the moment Eyre had counted on. From this moment, very little could go wrong.

❖

Johnson sat alone in the conference room, baffled by the turn of events. The plan had been a simple, logical progression that would force the Outer Rim to withdraw from the cluster. From Orange, he had moved out and built the Lyman base, which had developed rapidly as a source of metals and organics. From Lyman, he had brought in additional labor and materials to build the Henry base. Johnson was becoming sure that his biggest mistake was setting up the wrong compensation plans for the crews that built the bases. The people who built Lyman base had been carefully recruited from his business associates. Once in place, they were not interested in moving further into the frontier. The crews he had assembled to build Henry base were too desperate, too hungry for business opportunities.

The tone and tenor of the briefings had been changing as the battle wore on. They had started to talk about risks and contingencies. His own staff were working out alternative scenarios where they would be forced to abandon the base. They had developed a plan for hiding some of the base’s assets in odd orbits, unmarked by any beacons. A returning force would be given precise orbital solutions for locating the equipment.

The door to the conference room chimed and slid open. A marine stepped in, saluted and said “Message from the bridge: Outer Rim ships in firing range.”

To Johnson, this was just more of the same incomplete news. What were his people actually doing? It seemed like his organization was crumbling away in front of his eyes.

“Where’s Eyre?” Johnson asked, wondering what effect the cannons were having. “Why didn’t Cole stop them?”

The marine stood, staring across the room. Johnson knew that the marine had nothing to say, and couldn’t answer unless ordered to. Johnson also knew that the marine had an opinion; sometimes the unfiltered front-line information was more useful than a summarized, aggregated, confirmed report. Every three months he would order his officers to meet directly with the rifleman to gather their opinions.

“That’s it,” Johnson said. “The waiting’s over, son. I did everything I could to prevent the attack on my base. Now, all that’s left is for me to lead the counter-attack.”

Johnson had heard Eyre explaining that the base was built to withstand just such an assault. Johnson, steeped in the Core Planets military doctrine, didn’t really trust Eyre’s plan; he could only trust powerful fleet action. Johnson was also a skilled political animal; since any inquiry would immediately blame the novel military concept of a large, fixed base, Johnson had to make a counter-attack with his remaining ships.

Johnson stood, leaning on the table for support. He moved around the table toward the conference room door. The marine saluted as Johnson passed, and fell in, two steps behind him.

The hallway was empty. The base was remarkably quiet. Johnson knew that Phineas had somehow managed to quell the panic and get marines, pilots and civilians to their battle stations. The ambush and the retreat had almost destroyed morale. This confirmed Johnson’s suspicion that a mobile, active force was most effective; people cowering behind armored shields were too passive and submissive to be a military force.

A muted boom echoed through the hallway.

“Are we shooting?” Johnson asked the marine.

“No sir, we’re taking hits.”

To Johnson, this meant that Eyre’s cannons had been defeated or out-flanked, and the base was doomed. With Williams and Cole gone, the remaining force had little ability to fight back without the cannons. They might hold out, but the Outer Rim could simply bring up reinforcements and eventually overrun the base. If Johnson could get a scout to Lyman to bring up the forces there, he might be able to withstand a siege.

The wall exploded, blasting Johnson to the other side of the corridor. He’d been told how suddenly death comes. The prospect of death underlay everything Johnson was trying to accomplish as a military leader. While knew about it, he had never experienced it, and did not really know what it was to face death.

He lay in a heap of bloody limbs, a broken desk and torn scraps of uniform. His ribs and arms were broken. He was stabbed in several places by shrapnel and burned by the ionizing radiation that blasted through the hull and several meters of offices, store rooms, and hallways.

The atmosphere started draining out through the hole. Johnson could feel the breeze and hear the rushing sound. He woke up, contorted painfully, laying on the deck, cold and in pain, unaware at first what had happened. He tried to look around, but his arms ached dully and wouldn’t respond. His legs were twisted terribly, and he could start to feel the terrible pain of dislocation in one knee. He found that he could only breathe shallowly and rapidly.

A face leaned close to his. “Sir?”

The base was groaning. He could feel the metal shudder underneath him. He was having trouble catching his breath. His throat was choked with something salty and thick.

“Marine?” Johnson croaked out.

“Yes, sir?” the marine said.

Johnson heard running feet. There was a conversation at the edge of hearing.

“Who was that?” someone asked.

“Well have to find the other half of him to see some ident,” the other voice said.

Johnson tried to turn, but his head was too heavy to move.

“Marine?” Johnson croaked. The face reappeared.

“Sir?”

“Get Colonel Phineas. Make sure he knows he’s in charge,” Johnson ordered.

The marine looked around for a moment. People shuffled around. Someone called for a cutting tool. Someone else called for hull mats.

The marine’s face reappeared. “They’re going to take you to the infirmary, sir. You’ll be fine.”

Johnson tried to reply, but no noise came out. He rested a moment.

“I’m sure you’re right, son. You get to Phineas first, though,” he croaked out.

The marine nodded but didn’t move. There was some more activity around him. He heard some equipment being dragged across the deck. His legs had moved from throbbing to real pain. His arms had gone completely numb. He was very afraid that something had happened to both of his arms.

The commotion around him was growing. He thought he heard someone order “Goggles”. He heard the whine of a cutter starting up. He rested for a moment. The marine had taken a knee by his head; the marine shaded his eyes against the shower of sparks from the cutter. Random flashes from one direction contrasted sharply with the emergency lighting from the other direction.

After a moment, someone put a cutting safety mask into the Marine’s hand. The marine carefully positioned it against Johnson’s face. There was a flurry of activity that echoed behind the shield. Then the shield was whisked away, and a circle of faces appeared. Johnson saw two corpsmen and a nurse in addition to the marine that had knelt by him.

One of the corpsmen had taken charge. After shifting Johnson around a bit, they discussed how to move his legs. A number of hands lifted one leg, and rotated the other into a better position. The movement hurt, as did the new position. Someone fired a pain ampoule into his leg. The sudden cold replaced the pain.

❖

Eyre checked the artillery situation display. All eight guns showed full power sensors. The two non-working guns had been rigged with ship sensor systems to make them appear operational; one could not be steered on two axes, and the other could not be primed for firing. Eyre knew the ruse was working when an Outer Rim frigate took up a position and rained concentrated fire at one of the dysfunctional guns.

Eyre still took the time to count through the guns by the numbers. The first volley had to be completely lethal. Eyre could see his own crew fidgeting. The kill zone contained almost the entire Outer Rim fleet. The Outer Rim was firing on the guns and the base. Eyre knew that this was the time when a small mistake could reverse the tide of battle.

On the situation display, he could see the targets moving slowly as his gun traversed into position. He flipped on the relays from the other guns and saw the intersecting lines of attack.

“Show ‘em the Core,” he announced.

There was a cascade of clicks as gates and shutters were opened. The electrical contact couldn’t be heard on the bridge, but the loud bang of the immense capacitor discharge deep within the bowels of the cannon could be heard clearly.

The actual firing of the cannon was a kind of shrieking as the ionizing radiation roared down the magnetic focusing array. The gun platform shook, knocking everything that was loose onto the deck. Eyre had forgotten to strap in, and was knocked from his console seat and slipped down into the vibrating deck. He tried to scramble up off the deck but the shaking was too heavy for him to get any purchase against the metal. He had ordered deck pads, but they had not arrived from Lyman. He would be black and blue on his entire left side.

Once he was back in his seat, he strapped in and looked at the damage from the blast. The grinding whine of the storage ring recharge began. In the intercom, he heard the orders being given in their ritualized sequence to assure that the machine worked perfectly.

Eyre switched on the external telescope to minutely examine the destroyer. It had at least two distinct holes in it, most likely from guns one and three. One hole had inverted nicely as the atmosphere spewed from the ship. The other hole was still folded inward, showing that nothing vital had been hit.

“Heaters to full,” Eyre heard from his own crew.

Seconds later, guns two and four announced that their storage rings were fully charged.

“Guns two and four, same targets,” Eyre said.

His crew shifted around a bit to see why they weren’t firing yet.

Eyre couldn’t count the Cephalopod ships that were appearing. It was not clear what they were doing. He was hoping that the intelligence assessment was correct and they would run. Otherwise, they were doomed to die in protracted hand-to-hand fighting with squids.

When guns two and four fired, the blasts ripped into two separate frigates. Some intervening Cephalopods scouts were torn up, also. Eyre knew exactly how impatient his men were, as he waited for some kind of positive confirmation. He wished he had an intelligence crew to count and track the Cephalopods. His best guess, however, was that they were running. He was sure now that the destroyer was having trouble maneuvering. It looked like two Outer Rim frigates had collided in their rush to avoid the destroyer. Another frigate seemed to be tumbling slowly, spewing a column of crap from a huge hole.

Guns three and five announced that they were ready. Gun six seemed to have had a breakdown already.

“All guns,” he said slowly, “fire at will.”

He created the slaughter Phineas had ordered. His gun, plus three and five immediately fired on the closest targets of opportunity. Eyre found that he was relieved to allow the other gun commanders to operate independently. He could focus more narrowly on the interesting problem of locating the highest value target in his range of operations. Once they were in fully offensive mode, gun operations became a simple litany, repeated with a calm detachment that contrasted with the horrifying damage they created.

Twenty-Nine

Larry Drover found that the basic difficulties of flying an Outer Rim scout ship were magnified by having ships shooting at him. Since the ship flew awkwardly, he could not shape a standard course away from the desolate planet in the dust cloud. Like other disabled ships, they were migrating out of position in the fleet, forcing the more able ships to accommodate to their clumsy course.

At some point, the Outer Rim worked out the chain of command in the retreating units, and Larry’s scout had started to come under fire. Without organized intelligence, it was hard to be sure, so Whiting had stopped giving orders, hoping that the other commanders would fill in for her. As they fell back, with more wounded and damaged ships, keeping a good defensive position was becoming more and more difficult. Larry wanted Whiting to go back to giving orders to the fleet because she had been successful maintaining a defense that shielded the damaged ships.

They were being pursued by two or three scouts. Larry wanted to move behind a frigate, but he could not longer actually tack the scout without losing precious momentum to the star’s gravity. The gravity foils were damaged, and he had few tricks left. The pursuers would close with him in a heartbeat if he sold off any forward speed for a tack.

Whiting had moved from navigation to weapons.

“Starboard,” she said. “Way over.”

In spite of her urgency, Larry took the turn slowly. Mo eased the trim on the foils as much as possible. The ship fell off the gravity field slowly. Larry and Mo both grabbed at hand-rests, but the Outer Rim scout didn’t heel like their old Mule II. During the turn, they could hear the change in the rumble of flight deck torque generator that countered the heel angle, keeping the deck level.

“Further,” she said.

Larry eased some more, careful to avoid any sudden maneuver that would sap away their speed. He was not sure what she was trying to aim at.

“Starboard further, dammit!” she bellowed.

They had reached the forward limit of the foils and had to reverse them. They had essentially worn onto the other tack, taking the first part of the long, slow 270 degree turn.

“Sorry, gotta bump,” Larry said.

He hit the command for a reverse tack. He steered through a few points on the bearing indicator; the foils went slack for a moment as Mo spun them to their reversed position. There was a noticeable slacking in their speed. The torque compensators in the scout whined. There was a thump as the foils began to respond to the star’s gravity. The ship settled on the new course. Larry glanced at the weapons display and saw a pursuing scout drift into their targeting area.

“Starboard again,” Whiting said. “Down a little.” 

Larry pulled this ship into a tighter course. Mo trimmed in the foils, and their speed began to pick up. The pursuing scout had tacked, and was moving into position to create a gravitational eddy; this also brought into the sector Whiting was covering with their remaining cannon.

The ship jumped as the cannon fired. Somewhere in the structure of the scout, some safety bulkheads were left open; the roar was deafening. There was an electrical charge in the air for a moment. Anything Larry touched shot sparks at his fingers.

“Missed!” Whiting said, bitterly, almost in tears.

She was biting back hard to keep a calm exterior. Her primary mission had been reversed; she would be blamed for leading Williams into the trap. Her attempt to salvage an organized retreat was about to fall apart. She could see her military career following her business career. In the wrong place at the wrong time, they were low on ammunition, and being closely pursued. It looked like her fate had been reduced to a matter of being one of the lucky ones who survived the fight.

“I saw the shot,” Larry said. “It was good. You scared him.” Whiting sighed and wiped her hands. She was sweating and the controls were getting slick.

Mo’s synthesizer boomed through the intercom. “Have we enough fuel? Can we shape a course?”

Larry was afraid they would not have enough energy to move the doubled-up ship all the way back to Henry. It was awkward to fly, and clearly draining their fuel at an alarming rate. Mo’s veiled assessment was that they would never make it, and a heroic effort could only lead to a tragedy.

“We’ve got to go back to the rock and ditch,” Larry replied.

Whiting spun around on her seat.

“What is your problem, pilot? We’ve got a job to do and we’re going to do it!” It was her best military bark. She made it perfectly clear that she was willing to fight to the very end.

“Listen, hon,” Larry said, turning away from the controls to face her. “I hate to break it to you like this, but we’re low on fuel, low on ammo, and this thing flies like a bag of bricks. And they’re shooting at me!”

Larry turned back to fly the ship. He needed to keep shifting their course, erratically if possible, to shake of the Outer Rim pursuit. The hottest part of the fighting had moved further down the line. For a moment, they were being ignored.

“Will we die?” Mo said, breaking the silence.

“I think we’re out of options,” Larry said, looking at his controls. He didn’t want to face Whiting’s direct wrath.

“Aren’t you supposed to keep some options open? Didn’t you tell me to have a bail-out plan?” Whiting shouted.

Larry turned away from the console for a moment to stare hard at Natalie.

“This is the bail-out plan,” he said slowly.

Whiting slumped back into her seat. He felt bad about breaking it to her abruptly. He hated to crush her hopes for leading the retreat back to Henry base. Their crash-landing would make her heroic effort to salvage something from the ambush into a mere footnote in the final report on the battle.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” she said quietly. “But you’re the pilot.” 

Larry, also, had a bad feeling. He was deeply suspicious of either course of action. He wasn’t sure he could survive going forward into more combat at Henry base. He was also sure that going back to the desolate planet was a just vague optimism. This was the frontier, and the frontier meant armed conflict; his idealized frontier of peace never existed, except as a perfectly fictional history of the cluster. He preferred his comfortable ideals over her unknown pragmatism; and a safe landing was the romantic ideal escape from a bad situation.

Natalie leaned over and put a hand on Larry’s arm. “Larry, I know it’s a little late, but I am sorry. I really regret putting you in this position. This was really my—”

An explosion rocked the ship. A locker door popped open, spilling spare parts for the control consoles into the cockpit. Natalie was knocked out of her seat.

“Crap,” Larry shouted, “I never saw that coming. Where is it?” 

Natalie scrambled up to the console and tried to locate their adversary. It took several scans to realize that they had been flanked. They were cut off from the retreating line of ships. The good news was that the pursuer was almost lined up with their guns.

“Oh yeah,” Natalie told Larry. “Hold me. Up and over, starboard roll.” 

Larry hammered the controls. They had lost some power from a damaged foil, but the attached Core Scout made a starboard roll their easiest maneuver. Larry braced for the change in forces, but an Outer Rim scout didn’t respond like a Core Planets ship.

“Port a little,” Natalie said. “Oh yeah, hold me right there. Come to mamma, honey.” 

Larry picked out a set of navigation coordinates and tried to hold the ship steady on the present heading. The ship tended to crab, so their actual direction was different from the coordinates in the navigation display.

The ship was rocked by another huge explosion.

❖

The Henry Base hallways were jammed with people, most of them in uniform. Everyone was going in a different direction. It was complete, undisciplined pandemonium. Phineas saw that the wounded and injured were being pushed around by people trying to get past the gurneys; nurses and corpsmen were shoved by the surging crowd.

He saw an officer waving a computer, attempting to force his way through the crowd, and being pushed backwards. Phineas shouldered his way into the intersection. One long, wide hallway led to several loading piers; the injured had been moved down this hallway. In the general panic, people had come down here looking for a ship so they could escape, but all they found were the injured and dying.

An armored Marine mashed Colonel Phineas into a doorway. The Marine was powering through the crowd, rifle held high.

Phineas took out his own side arm. He hooked his arm around the Marine. The Marine spun around to shake off the assailant. Phineas stuck his side-arm through the visor slot in the Marine’s helmet. The marine stopped moving; Phineas could see one eye, staring around wildly at the barrel of the handgun pressed against his face.

“Give me that weapon!” Phineas shouted over the milling crowd.

The Marine lowered the gun to Phineas without a pause. Phineas was pleased to see that some shred of discipline still remained.

Phineas armed it, primed it, and fired into the ceiling. There was a deafening boom. Acoustic insulation and structural components rained down into the suddenly silent mass of people. A burst pipe sprayed fitfully for a moment before a safety valve closed.

“Now Hear This!” Phineas bellowed. “The next marine that violates an order will be shot by me! Any questions?”

The eerie silence spread. Phineas could hear “shh” and “what” from other hallways as people craned around corners to see what had happened.

Phineas shouldered the weapon in a proper shooting position.

“There are dozens out Outer Rim ships inbound on this base. The plasma cannons are fully operational. Every marine in uniform will report to their battle stations immediately!”

There was a brief swaying. Some people started to move. The mob had a dense inertia; it would require tremendous force to change their direction.

Phineas brought the weapon down to sight in on the nearest marine with officer bars. He was a lieutenant who had been carrying a computer over his head, trying to push through the crowd. The crowd parted slightly, leaving the lieutenant standing, clutching his computer, glancing to the side. The lieutenant didn’t notice the crowed parting; he seemed to be too busy trying to edge through the crowd.

“What is your duty station?”

The lieutenant turned to see that Phineas was aiming at his head. His chin pulled back, his eyes went wide, he gasped for breath. Mixed in with the fight-or-flight response was the freeze response, hoping the predator would miss you.

“Logistics,” the lieutenant croaked, his mouth dry. “Weapons stores, sir.” 

“You’ve got five seconds to get out of this companionway!” Phineas shouted, loud enough for everyone jammed in the hall to hear.

There was some movement away from the intersection. People further down the hall had not changed their direction, yet. People close to Phineas were slowly switching from a mixture of frozen terror and flight to a more concentrated fight; their first obstacle was to push against a wall of humanity still deciding what to do.

Phineas moved the rifle to a sergeant, staring at him in open-mouthed awe.

“What are you supposed to be doing?”

The marine’s mouth worked up and down before words came out.

“Fuel management.”

That was a bad response, Phineas thought. The standard formula included “sir”, and this marine’s failure was a symptom of larger problems.

“Did you say squid bait?” Phineas shouted. It was the standard drill instructor response; he’d heard it shouted whenever he went to view the newest troops on a duty station.

“No, sir!” the marine shouted.

That was a better answer, given with more of the hoo-yah attitude that Phineas hoped for. It was a crutch that marines had built into their training for centuries. This call and response, this shouted enthusiasm for duty could make the most irregular situation into something more normal and well-understood.

“Prove it!” Phineas shouted. “Get our ships fueled up and fighting!” 

The marine turned around and started clawing through the crowd. There was some more purposeful motion of those people around him. The silence had been replaced by a murmur. The panic and shouting did not erupt immediately. Hopefully, a few with discipline could sway those who dithered to tip the balance from flight to fight.

Phineas raised the weapon, and prepared to put it back on safe. A woman in a non-standard flight suit started to edge up toward Phineas. He looked over and saw her trying to slip behind the armored marine who stood by, silently, while Phineas used his gun.

Phineas brought the weapon down, pointing at her. She immediately started backing up, holding the wall for guidance.

“Where are you going?” Phineas asked, look at her through the sights.

She had both hands on the wall, almost clinging to it for support.

“That’s my ship,” she whispered.

Phineas glanced over his shoulder at the wall behind him. It was a cargo bay door. He raised the weapon and stepped aside. She scooted behind the marine, punched in the code, opening up the small crew access door, and jumped inside. The door rattled shut behind her.

Phineas, weapon pointed at the ceiling, stared around at the swirling mob. His hands were sweating, and he was having trouble catching his breath. He sighed, and realized that his knees had gone soft.

Phineas looked at the marine; the marine’s eyes were clearly visible through the openings in the helmet. The marine was glowering at Phineas; he was angry at being threatened by an officer.

“How about you? Are you going to save this base?” he asked, quietly.

The marine’s eyes narrowed.

“You pulled on gun on me,” the marine said slowly, his voice muffled by the armor.

Phineas took a step closer to the marine; he was leaning on the armor.

“What was that, marine?”

The marine stared hard at Phineas. He twisted around in his armor to get his chin up out of the air regulator.

“You pulled a stinking gun on me,” he shouted.

Staring at the marine, Phineas turned his shoulder to show his gold colonel’s insignia.

“Sir,” the marine added, as surly and bitter as possible.

Phineas looked over the armor for a moment. He looked up and down, as though seeing it for the first time. Then he leaned back close to the helmet.

“Marine, am I ever supposed to see battle armor in this part of the base?” It was a rhetorical question. 

The marine knew that armor was worn only on battle stations. The marine glanced to the side.

“I had to get something,” he said.

Phineas waited for the marine to look back at him. It took a moment for the marine to stop looking away and look straight at Phineas. Phineas could see the marine working up a good sense of righteous defiance. Phineas checked the marine’s identification label on the front of the armor. It said “Cpl. Pittdorf”. Painted neatly below it, was his handle, “The Pits”. The lettering looked like the machine-embossed identifier; Pittdorf may have been a self-serving coward, but he was also a craftsman.

“I had to get people’s attention, Pits, and you were walking by.” Phineas stepped back so The Pits could see him through the narrow visor. He turned the weapon around, doing the inspection ritual that was usually reserved for formation at boot camps. Phineas opened the power supply, checked the magazine, cleared the breech and glanced through the barrel to the floor; it was in top working order.

Phineas held out the rifle. The Pits hesitated, but took it properly, and set it at parade rest. It wasn’t good enough for boot camp, but it would do for the circumstances.

“That’s a pretty good example of readiness. May I look inside, marine?” Phineas didn’t give the usual parade-ground order of “open armor”; that might be asking too much.

He could see The Pits squinting at him through the visor. The Pits had something in mind, and Phineas was between Corporal Pittdorf and his plans. It would be tough to talk him out of whatever he thought was more important than defending this base.

Pittdorf raised the lever on the cam-lock on the front of the armor; the bands holding the power supply on the back released, and the power supply leaned back. Pittdorf stepped forward and leaned to counterbalance it with crisp boot-camp precision.

Phineas walked around and looked inside. The power supply was charged and working. The contacts were clean; the rebreather backup gauges showed that he’d only been wearing the armor for a few minutes.

Phineas walked back around into The Pits field of view.

“You look good, marine,” Phineas said. The Pits leaned further forward, almost a bow, the power supply flopped into position; he snapped down the cam-lock and stood up straight.

“Yes, sir,” Pittdorf said quietly.

“Who’s running your unit?”

Phineas didn’t expect an answer. A corporal who wanted to be an officer couldn’t give any answer to why he left his unit. Pittdorf looked away, scheming for an answer.

“Without someone like you, they’ll be squid bait,” Phineas began quietly. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, and I don’t want to know. I need you to get to your battle-station, and keep your unit alive. We may be outnumbered; everyone has to do their job perfectly for us to survive. As far as I’m concerned, everyone here is depending on you.” Phineas had used this speech before; but he was never sure how much emphasis to put but “everyone”. It was the literal truth, not some hyperbole to motivate the reluctant.

The Pits glanced to the side for only a second before he said “Yes, sir.” “Make us proud to serve with you,” Phineas said.

Phineas stopped looking closely at The Pits; he stepped back a bit further.

The Pits gave a final, non-committal “Yes, sir.” Phineas turned away from The Pits; he didn’t expect a salute or anything like it. He had to get to his shuttle and return to his own command post on one of the ion cannons. Phineas paused before leaving the intersection; he wondered if he would have had to shoot someone to make his point; and if he did have to shoot someone, would he have pulled the trigger in cold blood?

❖

Dieskau had not slept or been groomed in thirty-six hours. He had the stubble of beard; his hair style had fallen apart. His eyes were rimmed with red and sunken into his cheeks from too many stimulants and too little sleep. Propped in his seat at the situation display, he could see that the Cephalopods had turned a perfect ambush into series of small, hard-to-manage, pointless skirmishes. He was very sure that the Cephalopods had done nothing at all in the opening moments of the attack. He was waiting for the intelligence crew’s review of the sensor recordings to show him whether Caughnawaga had sent a warning to the Core’s Cephalopods. If so, then he would need to see if Linois’ secret agenda to replace him as supreme military commander of this cluster included deals with Cephalopods. Hidden deep within that fear was the deeper concern that the Linois was only a puppet of the Cephalopods. The actions of Caughnawaga further implied that some of the Cephalopods were controlled by the Core Planets. The depth and subtlety of the plan left Dieskau in awe. There was no possibility of a simpler explanation.

Opposite Dieskau, Caughnawaga stood, silently watching the display, also. The Cephalopods had said nothing for hours, simply watching the process of the battle. Dieskau insisted that Linois and Caughnawaga learn of his power, and come to respect Dieskau’s ability to crush all opposition. Dieskau could now see that Linois, as commander of the largest ship in the fleet, was the only commander able to hatch such a monstrous scheme; he was the one commander Dieskau could not easily have arrested.

Linois stepped from his bridge crew to Dieskau’s shoulder. They both looked at the situation display. Henry base was clearly identified. The stream of Core ships was edging closer, hounded by the Outer Rim’s fleet.

“Before we enter cannon range, we’ll need to make repairs and get resupplied,” Linois said quietly.

Caughnawaga stirred; it started moving toward Linois.

The speech synthesizer chimed, “The Cephalopods must rest and water and fuel. Ships are damaged, weapons stores are low.”

“If I may,” Linois said, “I suggest we probe their defenses, determine how many cannon work, what their combat readiness is.”

As Linois detailed his plans, Dieskau looked at the two of them, Mammal and Cephalopod, a small pod of allies buried within his own forces. He had suspected that there was disloyalty; a faction that had a private agenda, not for the benefit of the Outer Rim; within his force there were officers acting in their own narrow self-interest. Dieskau had an active interest in locating all of this faction, and rooting out the discontent they created. As Linois talked, Dieskau started to plan the intelligence-gathering necessary to find the true extent of this conspiracy.

Linois finished summarizing his own cowardly plans and looked at Dieskau intently. “We can’t rush into an ambush,” he concluded, without any trace of irony.

In a flash of insight, Dieskau realized that he had been manipulated by Linois and Caughnawaga: they had been visible cowards just to make Dieskau pit them against each other. Dieskau had fallen into their trap and given them the opportunity to conspire together. However, now that he saw their collusion clearly, he needed to know which of the two was leading, and which was following.

“No!” Dieskau shrieked, leaping up from the situation display. “Don’t you see? First we built huge bases, and they found success with small, mobile forces. Now they have built a huge base. Since they have become us, what else is possible but for us to become them?”

Dieskau sat back down at the situation display. The situation was suddenly clearer, clearer than it had ever been. Part of his sudden profound clarity was the stark realization of how completely isolated he was. His advisors were no longer providing him the kind of support he needed. The plans he had put together were not sophisticated enough to deal with the new threat he found inside his own organization. Until he understood his opposition, he needed a new, multi-layered plan, where only Dieskau knew the complete picture. He would not fall into this trap again.

“What will happen when we form up for an attack?” he asked. He was staring hard at the floor. He’d had a momentary glimpse of a plan so shrewd and compelling that it could not fail, irrespective of what his staff did to subvert it. He knew that he couldn’t articulate the plan to anyone, he could only issue necessary orders.

“They will crumble before me and sue for terms of surrender,” Dieskau went on, distracted by his wide-ranging thoughts. “This is the final glorious attack that will finish the battle.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dieskau saw them stepping away; Linois and his pod of Squid allies. Dieskau leapt up, taking a step toward them.

“Perhaps someday you will see that today we rewrite history,” Dieskau shouted, his arms flailing at them to emphasize his point. “Do you no see the sublime perfection of this reversal of roles?”

Dieskau turned toward the bridge crew and roared, “Attack formation. Now!”