Jack McDevitt - A Talent for War

Progress was slow. Getting around in null gravity is cumbersome, and we had trouble with most of the hatches. All were shut. Some responded to their controls; others had to be winched open. Chase tried twice to establish normal power from auxiliary boards, but had no luck on either occasion. Both times the green lamps went on, indicating that the functions had been executed, but nothing happened. So we continued to clump about in the semi-dark. One hatch resisted our efforts so fiercely that we wondered whether there wasn’t a vacuum behind it, although the gauges read normal. In the end, we went down one level and bypassed it.

We talked little, and we kept our voices down.

"Chow hall."

"This looks like an operations center. Computers seem to be working."

"Private quarters."

"No clothes or personal gear."

"There wasn’t much back in the storage units either. They must have taken everything with them when they left."

It’s been a good many years now since Chase and I took that walk through the belly of the ship. The chill that lay heavy in Corsarius on that occasion pervades my nights still.

"Showers."

"Damn, look at this, Alex. It’s an armory."

Lasers, disrupters, beam generators, needlepoints. Nukes. There were a dozen or so fist-sized nukes.

We stopped in front of another closed hatch. "This should be it," she said.

And I wondered also whether, like Scott, I was about to become a driven man.

The door responded to the controls and opened.

Stars were visible in a wraparound plexiglass viewport, and lamps blinked in the dark.

"Christopher Sim’s bridge," one of us whispered.

"Hold on a second," said Chase. The lights came on.

I recognized its type immediately from the simuls: the three stations; the overhead bubble like the one in which I’d sat during the raid on Hrinwhar; the banks of navigation, communications, and fire control equipment.

"Primitive stuff," said Chase, standing near the helmsman’s position. Her voice bounced off the walls. I walked over and stood behind the command chair, the seat from which Sim had directed engagements that had become legendary.

Chase thoughtfully inspected the consoles, and the brightened when she found what she wanted. "One gee coming, Alex." She tapped in a sequence, and frowned when there was no response. She tried again: this time something in the walls whined, sputtered, and took hold. I felt blood, organs, hair, everything settle toward the deck. "I’ve turned the heat up too," she announced.

"Chase," I said, "I think it’s time to hear what Captain Sim has to say for himself."

She nodded vigorously. "Yes. By all means, let’s find out what happened." She experimented with one of the control boards. The lights dipped, the ship’s monitors glowed, and external views of the vessel appeared. One tracked to the Centaur, and stayed with it: another showed us the capsule which had brought us over. "Battle control, probably," she said. "Don’t touch anything. I’m not sure about the condition of the weapons, but everything looks operational. It might not take much to vaporize our ride home."

I put my hands in my pockets.

I tried to visualize the bridge as I’d seen it on the Stein: quiet, efficient, illumination spotted only where it was needed. But things had been happening too quickly for me to observe procedures. I had no idea who did what. "Can you bring up the log?" I asked.

"I’m still looking for it. I don’t know any of these symbols. Bear with me." The ship’s general communication system snapped on, snapped off.

"They might have taken it," I said, thinking of a Tenandrome boarding party.

"Computer says it’s all here. Just a matter of finding it."

While she looked, I diverted myself with an examination of a command center designed by a 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. It was also clear that the Dellacondans had never worshipped the utilitarian gods who dominate our own time. The interior of the ship possessed a richness and luxuriance that suggested an inclination to go to war in style. It seemed an odd affectation for a people traditionally thought of as having their roots in tough frontier mountain country.

"Okay, Alex, I’ve got it. These are final entries." She paused momentarily to heighten the tension, or perhaps to allow me to entertain second thoughts. "The next voice you hear—"

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

"That’s probably the chief of a maintenance crew," I said.

"If they’re returning command of the ship to its captain, there should be more."

There was. Christopher Sim had delivered few 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. And I was impressed at how cleverly it had been reproduced by actors.

Zero six fourteen thirty-seven, it said in a rich baritone. Corsarius received per work order two two three kappa. Note that forward 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 restoration of transformer power, and Sim’s crisp voice accepted without comment. But even over the space of two centuries, one could read the satisfaction in his tone. He loved having the last word, I thought, amused.

"This would be the completion of repairs at Abonai," I said. "Just shortly before the crew mutinied."

"Yes. The dates check."

"My God," I said. "The mutiny, the Seven, we’ve got everything. Run the rest of it!"

She turned slowly toward me, with a pale smile. "That’s the last entry," she said. "There is nothing after it." Her voice was hollow, and beads of sweat had appeared on her upper lip, despite the fact that the air was still cool.

"Then the Tenandrome people did take it!" I said, a little too loudly.

"This is a ship’s log, Alex. It can’t be erased, can’t be doctored, can’t be removed, can’t be changed in any way without leaving a trail. The computer says it’s intact." She bent over it, stabbed at the keyboard, looked at the results, and shrugged. "It’s all here."

"But Corsarius went into battle shortly after that! There must have been log entries! Right?"

"Yes," she said. "I can’t imagine a naval service trying to function with arbitrary log-keeping. For whatever reason, Christopher Sim took a volunteer crew into the climactic battle of his life, and neglected to enter any of it into his log."

"Maybe he was too busy," I suggested.

"Alex," she said, "it could not have happened."

She settled herself with some diffidence into the captain’s chair, and punched fresh instructions into the computer. "Let’s see what we get if we back up."

Christopher Sim’s voice returned. —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 their throat, and will be attacked as soon as they can concentrate sufficient power. The Ashiyyur will probably divert their main battle group to the task—