Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

We didn’t talk much. There wasn’t much to say, I suppose. When we did speak, it was always in a whisper, as though something besides ourselves might be listening. Carmody on the Tenandrome must have felt it too. During the rare occasions when we heard his voice, it was thin and subdued.

It’s been a good many years now since McIras and I took that figurative walk through the Corsarius . The chill that lay heavy in her atmosphere pervades my nights still. We were approaching the bridge, and I was about to become, for all my life after, a cautious man.

McIras looked around Christopher Sim’s bridge and sniffed. “Primitive stuff,” she said. But she gazed for a long moment at the captain’s chair, the seat from which Sim had directed the engagements that became the stuff of legend. Then, breaking away, she examined the consoles, saw what she wanted, and pressed a key on one of the panels. “One gee coming, Hugh.” But nothing happened. She tried again: this time something in the bulkheads whined, sputtered, and took hold. I felt blood, organs, hair, everything settle toward the deck. “I’ve turned the heat up too,” she announced.

“Saje,” I said, “I think it’s time to hear what Captain Sim has to say for himself.”

She nodded and broke the link to the Tenandrome . “Until we know what it’s about,” she explained, hovering over the command console.

She had to play with it a bit to find what she wanted. While she did, I diverted myself with an examination of a bridge designed by people who clearly possessed a deep and abiding love for the arc, the loop, and the parabola. The geometry was of the same order as the exterior of the ship: one would have been hard-pressed to find a straight line anywhere.

“Okay, Hugh, I’ve got it.” She straightened, with her fingers pressed against the grid. “The next voice you hear—”

—Was certainly not that of Christopher Sim. “ Zero six fourteen twenty-two ,” it said. “ Abonai Four. Repairs categories one and two completed this date. Repairs category three as shown on inventory. Weapons systems fully restored. Corsarius returned to service. ”

It was obviously a record made while the ship was in port, presumably by the supervisor of the work crew. I looked at McIras.

“That’s still standard practice,” she said. “The port always makes an entry on returning command of a vessel to its captain. He should be next.”

Christopher Sim had never made any speeches, had never spoken to parliaments, and had not lived long enough to make a farewell address. Unlike Tarien’s, his voice had never become familiar to the schoolchildren of the Confederacy. Nevertheless, I knew it at once.

“ Zero six fourteen thirty seven, ” it said in a rich baritone. “Corsarius received per work order two two three kappa. Transformers check out at nine six point three seven, which is not an acceptable level for combat. Command understands that the port facility is under pressure just now. Nevertheless, if Maintenance is unable to effect repairs, they should at least be aware of the deficiency. Corsarius is hereby returned to port. Christopher Sim, Commanding. ”

Another round of entries announced reworking of transformers. This time, Sim accepted without comment. But even over the space of two centuries, one could read the satisfaction in his tone. The last word again.

“This would be just shortly before the crew mutinied,” I said, checking the dates.

“Yes, Hugh. The mutiny, the Seven, we’ve got everything.”

“Run the rest of it!” I said.

She tried. Her fingers danced across the console. She frowned. Growled at the system. “That seems to be the last entry. There is nothing after it.” She tried again. Shook her head.

“How can that be? Did somebody erase it?”

“This is a ship’s log, Hugh. It can’t be erased, can’t be doctored, can’t be changed in any way without leaving a trail. We’ll take it back and turn it over to Archives for verification. But I doubt there’s been any tampering. There’d be no point.”

That couldn’t be right. “ Corsarius went into battle shortly after that. There must have been log entries.”

“Yeah. Regulations require it. I’m sure even back then. For whatever reason, Christopher Sim took a volunteer crew into the climactic battle of his life, and neglected to put one word about it in his log.”

“Maybe he was too busy.”

“Hugh, it could not have happened.”

Almost without thinking, she settled herself in the captain’s chair and punched fresh instructions into the computer. “Let’s see what we can get if we back up a bit.”

Christopher Sim’s voice returned. He didn’t possess the sheer oratorical power of his brother. But it was a good voice, possessing a vitality that made it hard to believe that its owner was long dead.

“ —I have no doubt that the destruction of the two battle cruisers will focus enemy attention on the small naval bases at Dimonides II and at Chippewa. It can hardly do otherwise. Those sites will be perceived by the enemy as a bone in its throat, and will be attacked as soon as they can concentrate sufficient power. The Mutes will probably divert their main battle group to the task—.

“I think this is earlier in the war,” I said.

“Yes. It’s good to know at least that he uses his log.”

Sim described the composition and strength of the force he expected, and launched into a detailed description of enemy psychology and their probable attack strategy. McIras commented that he seemed to have got most of it right. We listened for a while, to that and other encounters. The historic value of the log would be astronomical. But she must have decided we weren’t getting anywhere on the immediate problem. She got up and walked to the door. “I’ve still got things to look at, Hugh. You want to come along?”

“I’ll stay here,” I said. “I want to hear more of it.”

Maybe that was a mistake.

After she left, I sat in the half light listening to analyses of energy requirements and commentary on enemy technology and occasional crisp battle reports, emanating from forays by Sim’s units against enemy lines of communication. Gradually, I was drawn into the drama of that long-ago struggle, and I saw the monster Mute formations through the eyes of a commander who consistently succeeded in scattering, or at least diverting, them with a dozen light frigates. I began to realize that Sim’s great weapon was the intelligence-gathering capabilities of listening stations afloat along enemy lines, and somehow shrouded from their sensing devices. Mute commanders, it appeared, could not void themselves without Sim’s knowledge.

The individual accounts were riveting.

Off Sanusar, the Dellacondans, assisted by a handful of allied vessels, ambushed and destroyed two heavy cruisers at the cost of a frigate. Near the Spinners, in the center of Mute supply lines, Sim stormed and looted an enemy base after luring its defenders into a wild chase. But the humans could never stand and fight. Time and again, Sim was forced to withdraw because he lacked the sheer force to exploit opportunity. Gradually, I began to read, first in his tone, and then in his comments, a despair that grew in proportion with each success and each subsequent retreat. Dellaconda was lost early, and when the news came, Sim responded only by breathing his wife’s name.

One by one, the frontier worlds fell, and he railed against the short-sightedness of Rimway, of Toxicon, of Earth, who thought themselves safe by distance, who feared to rouse the wrath of the conquering horde, who perceived each other with a deeper-rooted jealousy and suspicion than they could bring to bear on the invader. And when his luck ran out at Grand Salinas, where he lost most of his squadron and a battle cruiser manned by volunteers from Toxicon, he commented that “ we are losing our finest and bravest. And to what point? ” The remark was followed by a long silence, and then he said the unthinkable: “ If they will not come, then it is time to make our own peace! ”