John Dalmas - Soldiers

Soong had. The two battle groups had been keeping pace. He saw the torpedos flash against the Pyrenees' shield, which seemed to expand, then disappear, the instant almost too brief to register. Jabbing he locked a monitor on her. Almost simultaneously, another window showed one of the Altai's three attackers lose her own overstressed shield, and her beam, as Tisza's first salvo struck; her generator, if not her matric tap, had blown. A second lost her shield a moment later, to torpedoes from the Altai's cruiser escorts. The third, seeing the Pyrenees shieldless, turned its beams on her. Sprays of molten hull metal scintillated where the beams had locked. Then the final blow struck-two salvos, from two Wyzhnyny cruisers-and the Pyrenees ripped apart.

For perhaps two seconds Soong stared, then he snapped out of it. He'd seen-at the Academy they'd all seen-just such episodes in virtuality many times, preparing for a moment like this. Which helped. But seeing it in reality, and knowing who commanded, the moment stabbed him deeply.

The Commo battle wings passed through the enemy ring, many of the Commo battleships with Wyzhnyny target locks still attached. Then the maces returned. In self-defense the Wyzhnyny turned their guns and torpedoes on them; the Commo wings dropped shields and escaped, most of them, into warpspace before the outer ring of Wyzhnyny could engage them.

This time the maces continued outward, engaging the outer Wyzhnyny ring, striking selected wings and ignoring others. And scarcely had they passed through the outer ring when the Commo battle groups reappeared in F-space at a distance, re-forming formations for their next assault-in which they would change tactics on the Wyzhnyny, keep them guessing and off balance.

When the confusion had peaked again, the human formations, superbly synchronized, disappeared into strange-space. Quanshuk stared after them. The bridge of the Meadowlands stank with musk and sweat. Almost at once, status reports began to scroll. Watching them, Quanshuk's guts shriveled.

After several minutes it seemed apparent the humans would not return. But the grand admiral did not at once leave the bridge. It would amount to abandoning the watch in a time of trauma. Besides, who could be sure? The humans might suddenly reappear.

This time, when the battle was over, Charley Gordon wasn't jubilant. Instead he "sagged" in sudden exhaustion. With the Commo escape into warpspace-that's what it had been, an escape-the battle master's bridge orderly wheeled him to his quarters, where Ophelia Kennah took charge. Ophelia: Charley's nurse, confidante, and best friend.

Alvaro Soong wasn't jubilant either, nor about to take his fleet back into that maelstrom. Reports were incomplete, of course. A host of data had been recorded by the Altai's sensors, and more had been forwarded automatically in real time from his hundreds of other ships. All to be processed-compiled, analyzed and summarized. Only shipsmind could manage it, organizing and prioritizing, then scrolling at a rate his staff could deal with.

But what he did know was he'd lost about a third of his battleships and personnel, including the Pyrenees and Axel Tisza. The Altai herself had twice been in serious trouble, and been bailed out.

Inevitably his maces had taken the heaviest losses. About half were gone, despite their evasiveness and layered shields. They'd fought the most, where the risks were greatest. Without them, Charley could not have maintained battle contact with the Wyzhnyny for nearly as long, nor done nearly the damage.

In numbers, Wyzhnyny losses had been much greater, especially of crews. But again, in terms of percentages, Soong's Commos had gotten the worst of it. As expected.

Nonetheless, given the relative numbers and firepower, Charley had performed another miracle. Soong wondered what the Wyzhnyny commander made of it. Was he shocked? Enraged? Dismayed? Or possibly pleased?

After ordering hot tea and honey for the bridge watch, he went to his channeling savant, to send a preliminary report to War House. A full debrief could wait. He'd emerge in F-space in the cometary cloud; F-space was a necessary intermediate between strange-spaces. Then, after pulsing updated orders to his fleet, he'd generate hyperspace, and debrief to Kunming. And tomorrow-next shipsday-they'd reemerge for a fleet review and memorial service.

Finally Soong retired to his stateroom. He'd just closed the door, the lock engaging behind him, when it hit-the nervous exhaustion, the loss, the shock-all at once. He sank shaking onto a chair, put his face in his hands, and for the first time since he'd learned of his mother's death, he wept. All those men. All those men.

It lasted perhaps thirty seconds. After another minute he stripped and showered, then poured himself a brandy, read for a few minutes from Innocent XV's Soul and Body, and went to bed. Where his last thought was of Ax. I wish, he told himself, there'd been time to get drunk together again, after so many years. Then he fixed his attention on his old roommate and rival, and sent a thought. "Maybe next time," he murmured aloud. The prayer of a skeptic. He wondered if there was anyone, or anything, "out there" to hear it.

Envoy

The grand admiral had recovered somewhat. The master gender, after all, were genetically warriors, who'd received cardinal nurture from birth to weaning, affecting the postnatal growth of the endocrine system, while setting up gender-unique memes.

He'd retired to his quarters before ordering his XO and chief scholar to meet there with him. This had given him time for a drink; an empty glass was the evidence. After pouring drinks for Tualurog and Qonits, he refilled his own. Masters typically held their liquor well, an interaction of the warrior gene and cardinal nurture.

Unfortunately for Qonits, liquor combined with the sage gene brought impulsiveness and poor judgement. Thus Qonits hadn't drunk alcohol since the evening he'd almost gotten himself expelled from the university. A disgrace for which, in his clan, atonement would have provided only limited rehabilitation.

"Well, Admiral," Quanshuk said to Tualurog, "it didn't work as we'd hoped."

The XO scowled sourly. He hated to be wrong, and hated more to have it known. "Their AI technology was better than we'd realized," he answered.

Quanshuk wasn't about to let him off the hook. "Enumerate for me, please, the things that went wrong."

Grimly, Tualurog listed them. There weren't so many, but they'd been costly. Qonits, who was less than fond of the XO, nonetheless sympathized-until Tualurog glanced at him and added: "Your chief scholar served you poorly."

"As did Operations and Planning," Quanshuk replied. "Surprises are to be expected when dealing with alien life-forms. And unfortunately, these humans are remarkably clever, as well as technically advanced."

He paused, smelling his XO's upset. "Meanwhile, my thanks, Admiral. You summarized the difficulties nicely. You may leave now. Please prepare a detailed review for me, with your recommendations." For all the good they'll do. I have dug us a very deep hole.

The two friends watched the XO leave, closing the door behind himself with icy control. "He is a surly fellow," Quanshuk said tiredly. "But competent."

Also jealous, spiteful, and self-justifying, Qonits added silently. Aloud he said, "All his life he's resented his clan's loss of status."

Quanshuk ignored the comment. "What do you think of our situation? Knowing what you know now."

"We are in serious trouble."

"Elaborate, Chief Scholar."

You already know my views, Qonits thought. They are much the same as yours. "Your lordship, easy gains enticed us down a flowered path, never imagining it led to such-unprecedented danger."