“And if history is mutable—”
“Then nothing is inevitable. Not even the past.”
“I don’t understand,” Pirius admitted.
Dans said, “If you can redraft history, everything can be fixed. He thinks that even if he dies today, then history will somehow, some day, be put right, and all such unfortunate errors removed.”
“Hope, is that right?”
“Something like it.”
Dans snapped, “Pirius, the creed is anti-Doctrine, but it’s just as much a trap as the Doctrines. A Druz junkie thinks death and defeat reinforce the strength of the Doctrines. A Friend believes defeat is irrelevant because it will all be erased some day. Either way, you don’t fight to win. You see? Why else has this damn war stalled so long?”
Pirius felt uncomfortable with such heresy — even now, even here.
With a trace of malice Hope said, “But you’re as doomed as we are, Pilot Dans.”
Cohl said, “What about you, Pirius? What do you want to achieve?”
Pirius thought it over. “I want to be remembered.”
He heard slow, ironic applause from Dans.
Cohl muttered, “That is just so anti-Doctrinal!”
Hope murmured, “Well, you might be about to get your chance, Pilot. Sag A East is dead ahead. Dropping out of FTL.”
Jumpjumpjumpjump jump — jump — jump…
As the FTL hops slowed, they passed through a flickering barrage of stars, and electric-blue light flared around them: the pilots called it FTL light, a by-product of the energy the ship was shedding, coalescing into exotic evanescent particles. Pirius, relieved to get back to practical matters, tested the controls of the greenship and burped its two sublight drives — including the GUTdrive. This was a backup, a venerable human design, and one you would light up only in the direst of circumstances, for fear of attracting quagmites…
While Pirius worked, the others had been looking at the view. “Lethe,” Dans said softly.
Pirius glanced up.
Sagittarius A East was a bubble of shocked gas, light-years wide, said to be the remnant of an immense explosion in the heart of the Galaxy. Suddenly Pirius was at the center of a storm of light.
Dans called, “And look at that.” She downloaded coordinates.
A pinpoint of crimson light glowed directly ahead, embedded in the glowing murk. It was a neutron star, according to their first scans, a star with the mass of the sun but only twenty kilometers across.
Dans said, “That’s a magnetar. And I think it’s going to blow.”
Pirius understood none of that. “What difference does that make?”
“Here come the Xeelee,” Cohl snapped.
“Split up,” Dans called.
The greenships peeled away from each other. The single nightfighter, emerging from its own sequence of FTL jumps, seemed to hesitate for a heartbeat, as if wondering which of its soft targets to pursue first.
It turned toward the Claw.
“Lucked out,” Enduring Hope said softly.
“Hold onto your seats,” Pirius said. Lacking any better way to go, he hurled the ship toward the neutron star.
Still the Xeelee followed.
As the Claw squirted across space, Pirius called up a magnified visual. The neutron star was a flattened sphere, brick red, its surface smooth to the limits of the magnification. Blue-white electric storms crackled over its surface.
Cohl said, “That thing is rotating every eight seconds.”
Dans was standing off, Pirius saw from his tactical displays, watching the fleeing Claw and the dark shadow of her pursuer. “Help me out here, Dans,” Pirius muttered.
“I’m with you all the way. When you fly by, take her in as close as you can to the surface of the star.”
“Why?”
“Maybe you can shake off the Xeelee.”
“And maybe we’ll get creamed in the process.”
“There’s always that possibility… The crust is actually solid, you know,” Dans said. “There’s an atmosphere of normal matter, no thicker than your finger. You can get as close as you like. Your shields will protect you from the tides, the radiation flux, the magnetic field. It’s worth a try.”
“OK, guys,” Pirius said to Cohl and Enduring Hope. “You heard Dans. Let’s set a record.”
That won him ribald comments, but he could see that both Cohl and Hope were calling up fresh displays and hunching over their work. For a maneuver like this, all three of them would have to work closely together, with Pirius controlling the line, Cohl monitoring Claw’s altitude over the star’s surface, and Hope watching attitude and the ship’s systems. As they settled to their tasks — and so put aside their Doctrine manuals or illicit prayer beads or whatever else they turned to for comfort — Pirius felt reassured. This was a good crew, at their best when they were committed to what they had been trained to do.
Light flared over his Virtual displays. “Woah…”
The star’s surface had changed. Cracks gaped, and a brighter light shone from within. For a few seconds there was turmoil, as the whole surface shattered and melted, and remnant fragments swam. But as suddenly as it had begun, the motion stopped, and the crust coalesced once more, settling down to a new smoothness.
“Dans — what was that?”
“Starquake,” said Dans briskly.
“Maybe it’s time you told me what a magnetar is…
When this remnant was hatched out of its parent supernova explosion, it happened to be spinning very rapidly — turning a thousand times a second, perhaps even faster. For the first few milliseconds of the neutron star’s life, the convection in the interior was ferocious, and where the hot material flowed it generated huge electrical currents. The whole thing was like a natural dynamo, and those tremendous currents generated an intense magnetic field. As the star lost energy through gravity and electromagnetic radiation, the spin slowed down. But a good fraction of the tremendous energy of that spin poured into the magnetic field.
Dans said, “The field is still there, lacing the star’s interior. The field will decay away quickly — quickly, meaning in ten thousand years or so. But while the star is young—”
“And the crust quake?”
“The magnetism laces the solid surface, locking it to the interior layers. But the star is slowing down all the time, and the whirling interior drags at the solid crust. Every so often something gives. Happens all the time — like, hourly. But every so often the magnetic field collapses altogether, and the star flares, and… Lethe.”
“What?”
“Pirius, I’ve got another plan.”
“Make your flyby over these coordinates.” Data chattered into the Claw’s systems.
“Why?”
“Because a flare is about to blow there.” She downloaded a rapid Virtual briefing: a major collapse of the planet’s magnetic field, more faulting in the crust — and a huge fireball punching out of the star’s interior, a fist of compressed matter exploding out of its degenerate state. The magnetic field would hug the fireball to the star’s surface, whirling it around in a manic waltz.
The energy released by this event, it seemed, would be enough to cause ionospheric effects in the atmospheres of planets across the Galaxy. “Think of it,” Dans breathed. “This flare will batter the upper air of Earth itself — though not for twenty-eight thousand years or so. And you are going to be sitting right on top of it.”