The Razor's Edge

  “We’re still expanding.”

  “That doesn’t mean we’re not sinking. It’s been happening for a while: we may be isolated from the worst of it, but you know what’s going on, Skip: the colonies that don’t want to be colonies, countries bumping up against each other even though space is huge …”

  “It’s been like this for forty years, ever since the rashk gave us faster than light tech.”

  “It has,” Ewing agreed. “And there might have been a time when the EU might have made a go of this—but now I’m not sure. I’m not sure what we do.”

  Hamadjiou shifted in his seat, watching the main formation disperse as the missiles crept closer and MacDowell’s ships closed on the rebels.

  Lacerta piled on the accel, outrunning the missiles sent after it. Far away from the main formation that continued to close with the rebel ships, they had a fairly small share of chasers: all they had coming for them was Hector.

  That suited Theo Hamadjiou just fine. Lacerta and Hector were of slightly different classes: Lacerta was more maneuverable, while Hector was better armed and armored. The lighter Edward VII was intended to make the difference. Theo hoped so, and expected that it figured into the commodore’s calculations as well.

  Great, he thought. Here comes Gisele Rouchou, with murder on her mind.

  “For the moment,” Theo said, “we’re going to do our duty.”

  * * *

  “How long will they have us in range?”

  “Two, maybe three minutes,” Simmie answered. “They’ve put on so many Gs they won’t have more than a passing shot.”

  Theo squinted at the pilot’s board. “You can do a hell of a lot of damage in three minutes, Sim.”

  “Granted,” his XO said.

  “But … if we’re being detached to rescue Wallace MacEwan and the others, don’t you’d think Hector would be moving toward the objective rather than trying to intercept us at—” Hamadjiou stared at the board. “A half-million kilometers outside the fifth orbital? Hell, the gas giant isn’t even at this spot in the orbit—it’s a quarter of the way around from here.”

  “Rouchou’s looking for the killing shot, Skip.”

  “As much as that sounds like Gisele Rouchou, it still doesn’t scan. She could put us in a world of hurt, but we could as easily put Hector out. It’s got to be something else.”

  Theo stood up and walked slowly around the bridge, one eye on the pilot’s board. Warren was almost in range of Trent and all alone: the others were in among the gas giant system where Maurepas and Van Diemen had deployed to protect the installations there.

  Pacing was Theo’s preferred way to think. Many captains kept their butts planted firmly in the pilot’s seat: there was a captain named Anderson who was famous for it—not even a call of nature could get him off the chair. By comparison, Theo knew that he could command from port gunnery station if that was where he happened to be standing when stuff hit the aerator.

  “Simmie,” he said finally, “after she sideswipes us, where is Hector headed?”

  His XO was standing right near port gunnery, in fact, and issued commands to his console. A cone appeared on the pilot’s board, spreading out from Hector’s present position. The projection became more uncertain and hazy the further away it became: it had changed course to intercept Lacerta and Eddie so comp couldn’t simply predict a straight-line course. It was clear though that most of the possible paths took Hector directly to the asteroid belt between Sherrard A and Sherrard B.

  “Isn’t that interesting.”

  “What’s so interesting in the belt?” Simeon Ewing asked. “Other than missiles?”

  “Which they’ve already launched.”

  “There may be another volley.”

  “They didn’t need to have any of the four ships in the belt to launch the first volley.” Hamadjiou walked down to the center of the bridge and took his seat aft of the pilot’s board. Hector’s trajectory continued to update as the rebel ship continued to accelerate. “What they’re headed for—that’s a damn good question. A damn good question.” He turned toward comm. “Send this holo out to Edward VII and also to the flag, my compliments to the Commodore. She’s up to something—what the hell is it?”

  * * *

  With Hector detached to intercept Hamadjiou, it looked like Andreotti wasn’t going to let Lacerta and Edward VII get close to the hostages without a fight. That left Trent, Van Diemen and Maurepas to face the four remaining ships.

  More than twenty missiles were still following as they entered fire range.

  “All ships, engage as ordered,” MacDowell said.

  Guienne and Corvus had Van Diemen, a Jersey-class second-generation ship built here at Sherrard less than three years ago. Maurepas was less well-armed and less maneuverable: Pas de Calais was about the same in throw-weight with a little more maneuverability—but like Luisa Davis of Van Diemen, Gustav Hebert was an excellent tactician. Both Hebert and Davis could fight a battle like this in their sleep.

  He was left with Trent—but he had a personal score to settle with Andreotti.

  Orlov was on the bridge as the two squadrons met, en passant, just outside the fifth orbital. They wouldn’t be in range for long—two or three minutes at the most. The missiles would make the difference.

  MacDowell resisted the urge to ask him, Any other surprises? Somehow he doubted the intel officer would reply.

  Trent’s profile was growing on visual as the pilot’s board continued to track it. Four missiles were aft of Warren, closing as the flagship dumped velocity.

  “Hit,” reported Lane Hudson, his Gunnery first, “forward of midsection. Not sure if we got comm, sir.”

  “Any change to the missiles’ path, Linus?”

  “Not yet, sir. Their straight line trajectory to Trent would still take them near our position.”

  A series of indicators went to red on the engineering board. Internal gravity compensated, but MacDowell could almost feel it as Warren took the hit. “Hudson, did we get their comm or not?”

  “Stand by,” he said, touching his console. “No way of telling, sir. There’s enough chatter between the rebels I can’t quite make out whether Trent’s involved—we haven’t picked out their message encoding yet.”

  “Our four missiles are about sixty seconds aft, Commodore,” Linus Soren said.

  “Steady,” MacDowell said to Dominguez. “Hold your course.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Report on Pas de Calais,” MacDowell said, turning to comm. “I show them at sixty percent power.”

  “I’ve got a message from Pas, sir,” comm said. “They’ve still got incoming missiles they’re trying to shirk near the gas giant.”

  Maurepas had moved to protect the installations there as MacDowell’s fleet approached. It was almost at opposition with the saddle asteroid belt, about twenty million kilometers downrange of Warren’s position. Pas de Calais’ maneuverability would help them with dust and moons to hide in.

  “Have they been hit?”

  “Twice, sir. They haven’t hit Maurepas’ comm yet, but one of the missiles went awry and took out a refueling platform.”

  MacDowell frowned. “Casualties?”

  “Unoccupied, as far as Pas’ skipper can tell.”

  “Thirty seconds, Commodore,” Linus said.

  “Prepare for course change. Hudson, you’d better be a good shot.”

  “Hope so, sir.”

  “Twenty seconds.”

  “Now,” MacDowell said. “Hard to starboard. Maximum accel, close on Pas de Calais’ position.”

  The star field in the forward screen swerved. Another rank of indicators went on: Trent had scored another hit. MacDowell watched the missiles streak toward him on the pilot’s board—

  —And streak past, unable to match the sudden course change. He breathed a sigh of relief. The gas giant was in view now, half in profile, a largish moon hanging between it and Warren’s present position.

  Linus So
ren looked from the pilot’s board to his commander and back. The missiles continued to track in a straight line, all four of them—heading for Trent’s position.

  “I don’t think they can talk to it anymore,” Linus Soren said.

  Trent’s commander had evidently reached the same conclusion; it was possible that Maurepas or Van Diemen could redirect them, but it was also possible that they were out of range or similarly disabled. Trent, moving in the opposite direction out of the gravity well, had already changed course itself to head for an intercept near the gas giant. A broadside from the rebel flag took out one of the missiles; but as they watched on the pilot’s board, the remaining three reached Trent’s position and struck.

  After a moment, the icons for the missiles and the rebel flag vanished from the board. Eleven seconds later—light being a slower medium than mass-radar, which used the same principle as the jump drive—there was a massive, blinding explosion in the forward screen, sixty degrees to port.

  * * *

  Hector never stopped accelerating as it came within range of Lacerta and Edward VII. Rouchou took her shots and they were fairly good ones for the two and a half minutes they were in range. But even though Hector managed to disable Edward VII’s engines, there wasn’t any truly serious attempt to stop the two ships’ descent into the gravity well. Hector’s projected course continued to update on the pilot’s board, taking it into—and through—the asteroid belt.

  The damage to Eddie posed a bit of a problem for Theo. He couldn’t make for planet two with all possible speed without leaving the other ship behind. On the other hand, the departure of Hector from the inner system left nothing mobile to attack it.

  When they recorded Trent’s destruction on the pilot’s board a few minutes later, Theo commed Warren for new orders.

  * * *

  “It’s about damn time you got here.”

  Wallace MacEwan was standing with his hands on his hips in Ring Station’s C-in-C when Theo came on deck. The Marines had given condition green almost as soon as they’d boarded the station: either the loss of Trent and the subsequent disabling of Maurepas and Van Diemen at the gas giant had made the rebels holding the hostages unwilling to carry on, or MacEwan had made some kind of prison break—but there were no more dead bodies lying around, the rebels were in the brig—“better treatment than they were ready to give us,” MacEwan had told the Marine major who had led the detachment—and Hector’s lawful captain and the others left at the station were acting as if they were out on R&R rather than just out of mortal danger.

  Theo wasn’t sure whether it was bravado or just a brave face and MacEwan wasn’t telling.

  “Your XO’s a pretty good shot,” Theo said. “She disabled Edward VII.”

  “Where is my ship, by the way?”

  “Sherrard B.”

  “What the hell is it doing there?”

  “The commodore’s trying to find out. If Gisele doesn’t strike her colors, you may have no ship to go back to.”

  “Damn.” Wallace MacEwan ran his hand through his hair. “It’s not like there are a lot of ships just floating around waiting for someone to command them.”

  “It’s not like Commodore MacDowell is looking to take her out. But if she tries to go outsystem, there may not be any alternative.”

  “It was the Chinese, wasn’t it?”

  “Sam Andreotti must have gotten Big-5s from somewhere,” Theo said. “But there aren’t any GC ships insystem. Maybe they’re going to jump in to Sherrard-B.”

  “Then what?”

  “Depends what they do. But it looks like the Free Republic of Sherrard lasted … oh, about eleven days.”

  * * *

  Gisele Rouchou had made turnover right at the asteroid belt. Hector had decelerated as it crossed through the outer system of Sherrard-B. Warren was in pursuit by then: MacDowell had half again the firepower and at least twice the accel capability; he wasn’t in the mood for any more negotiation.

  A scan of the system showed a number of possible alternatives, but escape probably wasn’t one of them. A certain amount of dodging around would keep Hector out from in front of Warren’s guns for a while, but eventually there’d be an issue of fuel. Sherrard-B had no gas giant; Warren wasn’t going to let Hector anywhere near Sherrard-A.

  It took six hours. Finally Rouchou commed MacDowell’s flag; MacDowell took the call in his ready-room.

  “No rescue in sight, Commander,” MacDowell said. “I don’t know who you’re expecting, though I have my suspicions.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” the pro tem commander of Hector answered.

  “Right. I’m sure Sam Andreotti didn’t just go down to the Big-5 store and buy those damn missiles at discount. It doesn’t matter: they left you high and dry. It’s over, Commander. You can save some lives, or you can destroy some EU property. Your choice.”

  Rouchou didn’t look happy with the two alternatives. MacDowell half expected her to tell him to go straight to hell, but after several moments of thought—moments that some commanders in the Union probably wouldn’t have given a rebel officer in charge of a mutinous ship—she nodded.

  “Prepare to receive a prize crew,” MacDowell said. “This wasn’t a good idea, Commander. It never was. I told Sam Andreotti that, and I’m telling you as well. I could’ve blown you out of the sky—I suppose you know that.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t, sir.” Hector had changed course and begun to decelerate.

  “I can’t see as it would have done any good.”

  Rouchou considered this for a moment. “The Union is coming apart, sir,” she said, with a candor that seemed to spring from nowhere. “There won’t be too many more chances for you to show restraint, I’m thinking.”

  “I hope you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not wrong, sir. My career is over—for now.”

  “For good, Rouchou. The EU is going to put you away for a long time, but I’ll do what I can to speak up for you.”

  “Hector will be ready to receive your prize crew, sir,” she said, and ended the comm.

  Revolutionists

  Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  “Arin’s Envidaria, as instituted for the Seventeen Worlds by Arin Gobelyn’s son Jethri Gobelyn and overseen by the Carrassens-Denobli, established an egalitarian trade network meant to be self-supporting during the disruptive incursion of Rostov’s Dust into the lesser galactic sub-arm.

  “Jethri Gobelyn, a peripatetic traveler and trader, left his mark in many ways; his genes are said to be widely dispersed in and around the Seventeen World trading nexus. Due to divergent local institutional traditions the Seventeen Worlds Network experienced a period of instability following the end of the dust-dark and the reestablishment of regular trading with the wider Terran-Liaden trading web.”

  —Gehrling’s Middle History of the Inhabited Galactic Sub-Plane, Third Terran edition

  ~ ~ ~

  Geral was alone, as he often was. This time was different because he was doing squad work solo instead of with the whole squad. Famy Binwa’d called him sudden.

  “We got a big meeting for only Full Staff and Seniors, no cits allowed. Secret, too, you can’t mention it. You’re covering for Security. Get to it!”

  Another drill, he’d figured, but once his ID read as present in Service Squad’s corridor, Binwa’d said, “Not a drill this time, Geral. You’re mobile structure security! Watch yourself, there’s been trouble!” So he went careful. The logs did show trouble—odd trouble. Bar fights gone to flash-riots, followed by attempts to enter Admin without permission. Sabotaged cameras. Yeah, the cits weren’t pleased with Admin changing anything—heck, people would argue and fight if their old veeds disappeared and no chance to stuff ’em into personal holdings, much less work shortages and menus gone thin.

  Down here in the inner structure, though, he ought to be fine, no real chance of a riot or change to threaten him. Binwa’d sounded tense, like Geral might n
ot be up to the job.

  It didn’t help Geral that he’d been raised like he was fragile, him being a good birth in a bad Standard Year. In fact, him and Luchee being the only pair born across three hundred and ten days—and before-hand some doubts he’d be born at all.

  Once he was born they were careful of him—after him there were three years in a row with no births, period. They said it was the famine that did it, but then the cheese planets got back in gear after their little civil war and things got back to regular. Kids was born station-side again—they used fertility drugs and had a bunch of twins and triplets—so there were always a pack of youngers that he didn’t quite fit in with.

  The Seniors, it was known, kept him in reserve as a special case, ’cause he had good blood, since it was the ’fusions that let them get to their proper ages and the ’fusions that kept them safe during the thin-food. They’d been so close-knit that cousins were sisters and little brothers nephews. They tested him and never tapped him, but they kept his mother close. She had the blood and had survived his birth sturdy, even in those bad times.

  His mother—he hadn’t seen her for almost a Standard Year; she’d gone up deck and was living in Senior Pod, where the Seniors had their own medico and kept their own shifts. The last time he’d seen her, he’d been on ’cide clean-up. She’d been in a hurry elsewhere and had stopped when she saw him, nodding a greeting.

  “Looking good, Geral Jethri. Don’t join no rowdies, and don’t think you need a way out,” here she’d gestured to the ’cide site, “’cause you’re set. I’m good for years and you—you’re in the right orbit. You got the blood, so they’ll hold on to you like they hold on to me. The Seniors need you! I’ll see you about, I bet.”