Larry Niven - Fate of Worlds - Return From the Ringworld

Their concentration wavered and the intricate, beautiful, mathematical structure collapsed. Ol’t’ro decoupled a tubacle from the meld to answer. “We are here. What is it?”

“Panic among the Citizens,” the servant said. “An alien attack.”

They thought to ask what Proteus did, but it was more expedient to pursue that directly. “Thank you,” they dismissed the servant. “Proteus, at once.”

They got no response.

They probed outward through the network interface of the melding chamber into the rich communications complex that served the colony. As information flooded in, they considered:

Hundreds of Kzinti projectiles and several ships plunging toward the worlds of the Fleet.

That Horatius’ surrender went unacknowledged.

That rather than challenge the intruders, the drones, sensors, and comm buoys of the Fleet’s defensive array pulled away from the onslaught.

That a significant fraction of those drones, sensors, and comm buoys had begun to rain down into the oceans of the worlds.

That if Proteus hid, it was not because of Horatius’ panicked command.

That while they could still read from the far-flung sensor net, they had lost the ability to issue commands through it.

That severing them from Proteus was something Achilles might have tried.

That Achilles was trying to contact them.

That when they accepted the connection, Achilles’ eyes looked more crazed than ever. “Thank the herd! Do you know — ”

That whether the blame lay with Achilles’ conniving or their own collective inattention, Proteus had rebelled.

COMMUNICATIONS SPECIALIST CRANED HIS NECK, the better to examine Thirsty Talon ’s main tactical display. Rather than one map, now there were five. In each close-up view the smart munitions had begun to diverge, separate barrages arcing toward designated targets on and around each target world.

Spaceports. Ships. Communications hubs. Instrument clusters. Power plants. Selected factories whose inventory might enable the leaf-eaters to too rapidly repair those primary targets.

The diplomats’ long, miserable years of stalking were about to pay off.

Communications Specialist howled with the rest of the bridge crew as the leaf-eater probes fled, refusing combat. Even as targets died in fierce blazes of gamma rays, the leaf-eaters did nothing. Vile, honorless cowards!

But then a wonderful thing happened: resistance! Defensive swarms met offensive swarms. Leaf-eater probes hurried to defend key comm nodes and, close above Hearth, the immense orbital manufacturing facility of the General Products Corporation.

Communications Specialist had seen smaller natural moons.

A burst of explosions cleared the skies above Hearth — except for that General Products Corporation factory.

“It’s about time,” Gthapt-Captain growled. “Finally, a target they will fight for. A target worthy of personal valor.” To Communications Specialist, he added, “Get me the other captains.”

“Yes, sir!” Communications Specialist said.

In a flurry of hisses and growls, the four captains agreed: the ships of the vanguard would have the honor of destroying the single asset about which the leaf-eaters seemed to care.

“I promise names for all when the leaf-eater factory crashes to the surface,” Gthapt-Captain roared.

With the rest of Thirsty Talon ’s bridge crew, Communications Specialist snarled himself hoarse.

AT THE LAST MOMENT, Proteus had chosen to defend them, at least in part. Horatius wondered why the change of hearts.

If those antimatter munitions had reached the surface …

But they hadn’t. Directing a stern chord at himself, Horatius got himself under control. The herd depended on him.

Untold amounts of antimatter and an equal quantity of matter had transformed to energy, into gamma rays, just beyond Hearth’s atmosphere. Just beyond — and by that margin, dire catastrophe had become mere misfortune. The atmosphere blocked gamma rays.

But he dare not delay any longer. With his aides milling about, watching anxiously, Horatius reached for his computer to order —

The message-waiting indicator flashed. Only Baedeker had the priority codes to override his privacy settings.

“Leave me,” Horatius ordered.

At last he had the room to himself, and he opened Baedeker’s message. I am in place, but installation was improperly done. I will need the full scheduled time to make repairs.

Meaning not before all the alien fleets were upon them. Dare he wait that long?

LOUIS TOOK BACK the conn from Jeeves to drop the ship from hyperspace. He had to know what was happening, had to see whether any hope remained of saving Nessus.

And so — as Jeeves mapped the full spectrum of mayhem into the pitifully narrow band of wavelengths the human eye could see, and slowed the tactical display to a rate mere human minds could grasp — Louis and Alice witnessed madness above Hearth: the battle of the General Products factory.

At significant fractions of light speed, dueling ships and robotic craft alike raced across the few million miles of the Fleet’s singularity, jumped to hyperspace, then reappeared nearby to recontest the same territory. There were only four ships — Kzinti had already blasted the skies clear of grain ships — but many, many probes.

Louis lost count of the explosions. Probes of the Fleet destroyed. Kzinti missiles destroyed. One by one, in the most stupendous blasts of all, three attacking ships transformed into fireballs of pure energy.

The last of the Patriarchy ships managed to fire off all its antimatter munitions before getting hit. Drilling a fiery hole through Hearth’s perpetually dark skies, it held together long enough to plow halfway across a continent before exploding.

In the ship’s trail, one by one, arcologies collapsed.

Stepping discs, Louis told himself. Arcology residents could evacuate in an instant. If anything was instinctive to Puppeteers, it was running from danger. They would be all right.

Unless the warning came too late. Or the disc system overloaded from billions trying to escape the same small swath of territory at the same time. Or already catatonic with fear, they never got the warning. Or the warning they did get pushed them over the abyss into catatonia. Or, or, or. Imagining the many ways an evacuation could go awry, Louis was glad he didn’t have a closer view.

Alice had turned ashen. In a small voice she asked, “Why did Proteus change his mind?”

Had Proteus? Louis doubted it. “I suspect those Kzinti made the mistake of attacking something that Proteus cared about.”

Why was the General Products factory important to Proteus? For the life of him, Louis could not guess.

“All they accomplished was making the rubble bounce,” Louis said despairingly.

That and kill untold numbers of Puppeteers, Alice thought, sharing his anguish. She got out of her seat to stand behind him, her hands on his shoulders, kneading. On the relax-room table their dinners were untouched. “I know,” she said.

One day after the Kzinti raid, a Trinoc smart-munitions bombardment had erupted from hyperspace. It was déjà vu: same surprise attack, same indifference to surrender offers, same hail of destruction on any facility possessed of even the slightest defensive potential.

While Proteus pulled back and watched. Whether by luck or strategy, the Trinocs had not targeted the main GP orbital factory.

Louis reached up to squeeze Alice’s hand. “Elements of the ARM will be along soon enough. They’ll no more accept a Kzinti takeover of the Fleet than the Trinocs will.”