Foord was obviously planning some sort of action involving Horus 4. Everyone knew about Horus 4; if you got too close, it killed you. So did She, but She was more dangerous because She killed by choice and motive. Or maybe not. Maybe She was like Horus 4, and had no choice or motive. Maybe She was just made like that. There was a thought.
Swann looked again at the careful pattern of the cordon; it’s everything we have, he thought, and again wondered if it would be enough. He had found the Charles Manson and Foord and his crew to be quite alien, outside everything he understood and valued. But She was different by magnitudes. She made the Charles Manson seem like something it could never, ever be: One Of Us. One Of Ours.
3
They continued their approach to Horus 4, cautious and ever-slowing.
Gradually, their perception of Her had changed. In the Belt they had become the first of Her opponents ever to gain any advantage over Her, and that removed some of Her mystery. So too did Foord’s remark about Instrument Of Ourselves. They knew he had calculated it—he calculated everything—but it was compelling, and it changed how they saw Her.
And what completed the change was when Foord told them how he intended to use his two missiles. When he finished, there was a long silence.
“That’s very clever,” Smithson said, at first grudgingly; then, as he walked around it and looked at it from all angles, he added what was, for him, the ultimate accolade. “I wish I’d thought of that.”
Cyr murmured “So do I” and Foord glanced at her sharply, maybe suspecting she’d already figured it out; or maybe she read too much into his glance. Foord’s ability, like the garment Cyr wore, produced a remarkable effect on those around him; he could glide among them, like she did, as if unaware of it. The difference was that with Cyr it was just a garment, something she’d paid to find out about, and paid again to have made for her. With him, it was more: everything he was.
So they realised now that She could actually be defeated. And as they moved closer to the planet whose unique properties would make it one of their weapons, so the planet—because of its unique properties—became less interesting.
Even Foord grew tired of looking at Horus 4, though he was careful not to appear so. They had seen the wonders of Horus 5 and the Belt. They had crossed the Gulf between the inner and outer planets on their way to engage Her, and might—depending on what happened here—have to cross it again. But Horus 4 was different. Looking at it was as dull as looking at a door—duller, because at least someone might go in or out. It was like looking at a photograph of a door.
And yet Horus 4 was one of the weapons which would destroy Her. The other one was Foord’s pair of missiles. Foord wished he had made Blentport build him more than just two, but that would have been difficult given the circumstances there. And if they worked, two would be plenty; one would be enough. Not for the first time, Foord found himself wondering how and when he had thought of them. Smithson had been watching him.
“When I asked you before, Commander, you said you didn’t know. You said it was like you always had it.”
“What?”
“The idea about those missiles.”
“Well, I still don’t know. I can’t remember the exact moment.”
“That’s also what you said before, Commander… Ever thought that perhaps She planted the idea?”
Foord looked up sharply. He had been about to give Smithson a Smithsonian reply, then noticed the angularity of posture which, for Smithson, denoted humour.
It was infectious.
“Why ever,” Cyr wondered, “would She do that?”
Smithson shrugged, approximately. “Because She’s Enigmatic?”
“Perhaps,” Foord ventured, “Cryptic is a better word.”
Kaang had been following the conversation from face to face with some puzzlement. “What’s the difference, Commander?”
“Do you mean, what’s the difference because we’re going to destroy Her anyway, or what’s the difference between Cryptic and Enigmatic?”
“Yes, Commander. I mean, yes, I meant what’s the difference between Cryptic and Enigmatic.”
“There isn’t any difference,” Cyr said.
“Yes there is,” Thahl said, “but it’s hidden.”
Lazily, the irony fed on itself, chewing backwards and forwards while they worked on Her destruction. The approach to Horus 4 continued, slower and slower.
Slower and slower. Cautious, and more cautious. There was a point on their approach to Horus 4 when they would be captured by its gravity. Long before then, they would stop and make their final arrangements: the arrangements whose idea, like the design of his two missiles, seemed to be something Foord had always known. “And Faith?” he asked Thahl.
“She’s left the Belt, Commander, and is heading for Horus 4. Her position is approximately 15-10-16.”
“Approximately?”
“She’s still shrouded, and Her drive emissions are faint. She’s on low ion speed, about nine percent, and the gravity distorts our scanners.”
“Oh, of course,” Foord said. He added “Still Enigmatic, then.”
“Don’t you mean Cryptic, Commander?”
“I thought you said the difference between them was hidden.”
“It’s only hidden if you try to find it, Commander.”
Foord inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, and the conversation chewed and savoured itself a little more.
“Commander,” Thahl said, a few minutes later, “I still recommend caution. She might simply be heading for Sakhra, not pursuing us. She could just pass us by. Like…”
“Like we did to Her at the Belt. I know. But…”
But Foord knew. He had his growing instincts about Her, and his mounting pile of penny pieces of knowledge. Unless She really had planted it all, She would come for them before making for Sakhra. He knew.
“What’s Her ETA, Thahl? Approximately?”
“At least three hours at Her current speed, Commander.”
“Good. Then we have plenty of time. Let’s get it done.”
•
The orbit around Horus 4 was the simpler part. The missiles would be a bit more complicated.
They had calculated the orbit they would need. It would be a pronounced elliptical orbit. At the two opposing high points they would be able, with momentum plus bursts of ion drive, to break free of Horus 4’s gravity. But for the rest of the orbit they would be genuinely trapped, unable to do anything except move along its elliptical path. That was essential, if She wasn’t to pass them by. They had to be genuinely trapped. And Faith, approaching them, had to know it.
But that was the easier part; they had calculated all of it. All they had to do was continue their ever-slowing approach to Horus 4 and wait until they reached the critical point of commitment. Then, when they knew She was coming for them and not heading past them for Sakhra, they would inject themselves into the orbit. They would do it suddenly, making it look like an overreaction to Her approach. They had planned it carefully, and practised it repeatedly; but when they really did it, they would be committing themselves to the gravity of Horus 4. Nothing was worth that, except the chance to defeat Her.
“Commander,” Cyr murmured, “I know what the difference is.”