Jack McDevitt - A Talent for War

"I think this is early in the war," I said.

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

We listened while 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. I was impressed that he seemed to have got most of it right. Chase listened a while. Then she got up, and announced that she wanted to explore the rest of the ship. "Want to come along?"

"I’ll stay here," I said. "I’d like to hear more of it."

Maybe that was a mistake.

After she left, I sat in the half-light listening to projections of energy requirements and commentary on enemy technology and occasional crisp battle reports, describing Sim’s hit-and-run tactics against the big enemy fleets.

No wonder Gabe had been excited! I wondered whether he had known precisely what he was stalking.

Gradually, I was drawn into the drama of that long-ago struggle, and I saw the monster Ashiyyur formations through the eyes of a commander who consistently succeeded in scattering, or at least diverting, them with a handful of light warships. I began to understand the importance of his intelligence-gathering capabilities, the listening stations along enemy lines, fleet movement analysis, even his awareness of the psychology of individual enemy commanders. It appeared they could not void themselves without Sim’s knowledge.

The individual accounts were riveting.

Off Sanusar, the Dellacondans, assisted by a few allied vessels, ambushed and destroyed two heavy cruisers at the cost of a single frigate. I listened to Sim reporting his coup in the Spinners. There were other actions, many of which I had never heard. But always, despite the long line of victories, the result was the same: withdraw, count losses, regroup. The Dellacondans could never stand and fight: time and again, Sim was forced to pull back because he lacked the sheer force to exploit victory.

And then came Ilyanda.

We think we can beat them here, he announces cryptically. If not here, then I fear it will be nowhere. In that moment, I understood that Kindrel Lee’s story was true.

He names, but does not describe, the instrument of execution.

Helios.

The sun weapon.

He pauses, almost uncertain. As surely as I sit in this chair, history will judge harshly what I am about to do. But, God help me, I can see no other course.

At Ilyanda, the evacuation goes slower than anticipated. Some people are resisting, demanding their right to stay behind. I cannot permit it and, where necessary, we are resorting to force. And later: It’s unlikely that we will succeed in getting everyone off. We will do what we can. But whatever our circumstances when the mutes arrive, we will detonate on schedule!

Tension mounts, and units of the Ashiyyurean armada appear among the outer worlds. We must have everything away from here and all unusual movement stopped before they get within scanner range. There’s talk of sacrificing some frigates to delay matters, but Sim concludes that he cannot allow the Ashiyyur to guess that their presence has been detected. Meantime, some of the hoped-for transports have not arrived. The Dellacondans respond by padding the freight compartments of the shuttles (which are, of course, capable only of interplanetary travel) with blankets and mounds of clothing. Then they load the final evacuees, and clear out.

With luck they won’t be seen. They’ll get hungry, and a few of them may get blistered. But they have a chance.

With five hours remaining to his escape deadline, Sim withdraws the operations teams that have been coordinating the evacuation and salvaging as much of the art and literature of Ilyanda as possible. Tarien says no price is too high to stop the mutes. I suppose he is right.

At the last minute, more people are found at Point Edward. They are hustled up on the remaining two shuttles. Sim’s small fighting force has been leaving in single units, in an effort to create the smallest possible scan target. Finally, only Corsarius remains. Most of the late arrivals are packed on board, and they are quickly underway.

I hurried through the next few entries. Corsarius withdraws to a distance of about a half parsec, where they pause to watch. The Ashiyyurean fleet closes in, transmits warnings to the Dellacondans, and offers Sim a chance to surrender.

Sim captures the recording for his log: Resistance is useless, the voice of the enemy says. It is mechanical, matter-of-fact, eminently reasonable. There is no hint of exultation. Save the lives of your crews.

I looked around the bridge. Hard to realize it had all happened here. Outside, the planetary rim, hazy in bright sunlight, was coming into view. Where would Talino have been while they waited?

The station has opened fire on the enemy ships with its meagre batteries. The weapons are taken out quickly, and Sim reports that several destroyers have accomplished a forced docking.

Now, he adds. And there is an unspoken question in his tone.

Now.

It is a bad moment, and I can read his anguish.

And I thought: Matt Olander is sitting in a bar at the spaceport. He has taken the trigger off automatic, and his attention has been distracted.

The Corsarius debarked its passengers on Millennium four days later. I checked the tables. A modern liner, traveling between Ilyanda and Millennium, would spend about eight and a half standard days in Armstrong space alone. How had he done it?

There was something else, another log entry following a series of maintenance reports: We have to find out what happened. The thing might still go off. It has to be disarmed and made safe.

After that, the record garbles. I was trying to read it when Chase came back. "There are no remains anywhere," she said.

I told her what I’d found. She listened, made an effort of her own to clear the transmission, and shook her head. "It’s a security code of some sort. He didn’t want just anybody to read it."

"The phrasing bothers me," I said. " Disarmed and made safe. It’s a redundancy. Sim is usually very precise. What does one do after disarming a sun weapon to make it safe?"

We looked at one another, and I think it struck us both at the same instant. "He’s talking about security," Chase said. "No one is to know they have the weapon."

"Which means they have to explain the evacuation." I sat down in Sim’s command chair. It was a bit tight for me.

"Wasn’t it fortunate," she said quietly, "that the mutes acted so untypically at Point Edward. It saved Sim from having to answer so many questions."

She looked at me a long time. And I understood, finally, why there had been an attack against the empty city. And who had conducted it.

I found more log entries further on. Sim and the Corsarius were plunged again into engagements in a dozen different places across the Frontier. But he had changed now, and 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. And I heard his reactions to the defeat at Grand Salinas, and the loss, one by one, of the allied worlds. It must have seemed as though there was no end to the black ships. And eventually, there came the news that Dellaconda, too, had fallen. He responded only by breathing Maurina’s name.

Through all this, there was no further mention of the sun weapon.

He railed against the short-sightedness of Rimway, of Toxicon, of Earth, who thought themselves safe by distance, who feared to rouse to wrath of the conquering horde, who perceived each other with deeper-rooted jealousies and suspicions than those with which they regarded the invader. And when he paid for his victory at Chapparal with the loss of five frigates and a light 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!