Timothy Zahn - Warhorse

“Agreed. What about the vultures?”

Tenzing shrugged as best he could in four gees. “The shark seems to be covered with the things,” he said. “It appears my remora theory was at least partly right.”

“Except that in this case the scavengers play an active part in the hunt.”

“Right,” Tenzing agreed. “And that’s going to give us some trouble. We estimate the shark’s carrying about four times as many vultures as we’ve got sitting in front of Man o’ War right now. That’s considerably more than the net missile we’re building will be able to web up, particularly if they come at us in waves.”

Roman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Though as long as the waves come in far enough apart to give us a Jump window, the trick should still work.”

“Maybe,” Tenzing said. “Depends some on how close the shark is to us at the time—and on what, if anything, it can do to counter the web missile.”

And that was, indeed, what it all ultimately came down to: whether the shark was instinct-controlled, or whether it possessed a genuine, creative intelligence. “You think it can reason that way?” he asked Tenzing.

“Professional opinion?” Again, Tenzing shrugged. “I don’t know, Captain, I really don’t. Intelligence generally scales upward with brain size, but there’s no rule that says it has to, and there are some major exceptions.” He nodded toward the display.

“Your shark, here, retreated back to the dead space horse after its encounter with the lander; but then it must have left again right away to have been where it was when we first spotted it. So: did it fall back, do a little feeding, and then wander around licking its wounds? Or did it go back to collect the rest of the vultures so as to have its full attack force ready for the unknown thing that had fought back so strangely?” He shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Roman looked at the tactical display. Still an hour and twenty minutes to go till their rendezvous with the lander… and the shark was still closing. “What about the information in Commander Ferrol’s datapack?” he asked Tenzing. “Anything there we can use?”

“Oh, there’s plenty there,” Tenzing snorted. “Whether we can use it is something else entirely. It seems clear that heavy dosages—and I mean heavy dosages—of ionizing radiation and dense relativistic-particle fluxes can disable or kill space horses, with the sensory clusters being especially vulnerable. But Amity didn’t come equiped with X-ray lasers and fine-tune particle accelerators. ”

Roman nodded. “Lander? You getting all this?”

“Yes, sir,” Ferrol said a few seconds later, his voice grim. “Doesn’t sound especially hopeful, does it?”

“We’re not dead yet,” Roman reminded him. “Engineering will have the drive at full power well before the shark reaches us, and there’s enough particle radiation in there to give it at least a hefty slap in the face. And we’re trying to build an X-ray laser from parts of the aft comm laser—theoretically, that’s supposed to be possible.”

“I’ve seen it done,” Kennedy put in. “But even if Amity has all the necessary equipment, you almost certainly don’t have the time that kind of conversion will take. Recommend you concentrate on rebuilding the laser for multi-pulse capability, and then use it to fire on the shark’s sensory clusters.”

“We’re already doing that with the spare comm laser,” Roman told her. “You have anything else, Dr. Tenzing?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” the scientist said. “And for a change, this tidbit may actually turn out to be useful. It seems that our shark is a sprinter.”

Roman frowned. “Come again?”

“A sprinter,” Tenzing repeated. “As opposed to a long-distance runner. Here, I’ll show you.” Tenzing’s face vanished from the intercom again, to be replaced by a graph superimposed on a tactical diagram. “This is an analysis of the lander’s scuffle with the shark,” he continued. “You’ll note that the thing waited until the lander reached the closest approach to its position before attacking; and, furthermore, that tremendous seven-gee acceleration it chased them with was already dropping a minute or so before it grabbed Quentin. Even now—” the diagram changed—“you can see that the shark seems to be deliberately pacing itself, pulling just enough gees to keep gaining on us.”

“Interesting,” Roman said slowly as the display cleared and Tenzing’s face came back on. “What you’re saying is that, even though the shark is faster, there’s actually a chance we can outrun it?”

“I’m not sure I’m saying that,” Tenzing cautioned. “Remember that we’re talking about a predator here, Captain. Any predator that could be easily outrun by its prey wouldn’t be a predator for very long.”

“Um,” Roman grunted. “Point. On the other hand, a predator might not expect its prey to slow down while being pursued, either. We’ve got a turnover and deceleration coming up; maybe that’ll confuse it.”

“Maybe,” Tenzing said doubtfully. “I wouldn’t count on it, though.”

“I don’t intend to,” Roman told him. “I’m hoping we can get clear from our optical nets before the shark runs us to ground. Lander, is your vulture squad still holding at twenty-seven kilometers?”

“Like it was nailed there,” Ferrol said.

“Same with ours,” Roman said. “Sitting just outside Man o’ War’s telekene range.

So. Yamoto came up with this one a few minutes ago: what happens if we run Man o’ War and Quentin nose to nose with each other?”

For a long moment the laser carrier hummed with silence. “What happens,” Ferrol said, his voice thoughtful, “is that, at fifty-four kilometers, the two optical nets intersect. Closer than that… the nets either have to pass through each other or else have to pull closer in to their individual targets. Either way, both sets have to eventually wind up inside somebody’s telekene range.”

Roman nodded. “That was the same conclusion we came to,” he told Ferrol. “We’ll find out for sure in… just under seventy-five minutes.”

“Unless, of course,” Tenzing warned, “the shark is smart enough to see what we’re planning and moves in to cut us off before we get close enough.”

Roman grimaced. That was, indeed, the crucial question. “If so,” he said, “we’ll find that out somewhat sooner.”

Privately, Roman still held on to the hope that the shark would be confused by Amity’s turnover and deceleration; but it was a hope that died a quick and quiet death. Within thirty seconds of Man o’ War’s turnover, the shark had duplicated the maneuver, decelerating into a slightly altered course that Amity’s computers indicated would bring it to zero-gee relative at almost exactly their own projected rendezvous point.

And thus it was down to a race. Sitting at his station, squeezed into his chair by four gees’ worth of weight, Roman watched his displays, listened to the running commentary from the engineering and survey sections, and ran endless calculations. From all indications, the race was going to be very, very close.

“Got the lander on visual,” Marlowe announced, hunched over his displays.

“Range, fifty-five kilometers. Our respective optical nets should pass each other any time now.”

As yet, the mass of vultures on Roman’s tactical display showed no change.

“Yamoto?—what’s your reading on the shark?”

“Coming in fast,” she said, her voice fighting to be calm but not succeeding very well. “Range, two thousand kilometers; decelerating at five gees. We’ve got under five minutes if it holds that.”

“Lander?” Roman called.

“We’re ready,” Ferrol said.