There were literally hundreds of pictures of the destruction, buildings wrecked, fires burning, rescue workers pouring in, dazed survivors wandering through the carnage.
Investigators had estimated the yield at several kilotons. But there was no radiation. A government commission had finally labeled the incident “due to cause or causes unknown.”
No record could be found of a vessel that had lost fuel cells, or of improper disposal of spent units. Of course it would not have been in a perpetrator’s interest to get caught, and records were not difficult to falsify.
Authorities pursued independent investigations of both the disappearance of the women, and of the explosion. Neither ever came to anything.
The Mighty Third Memorial Museum was dedicated to the exploits of the Third Fleet during the brief but bloody war with Pacifica. Theory had once held that interstellar war would never happen because of energy consumption limitations, the problems inherent in subduing a planetary-sized hostile population, the impossibility of bringing an opponent’s interstellar force to combat should they wish to avoid it, and the fact that nothing one might steal was worth the effort to carry it off.
All this reasoning broke down because it assumed war was a rational exercise, carried on for rational purposes.
Historically, few leaders have calculated a cost-benefit ratio before plunging into combat. Kings often provoked conflict for the sole purpose of feeding their troops at someone else’s expense. Or to get tens of thousands of malcontents out of the country and pointed somewhere else, as happened during the Crusades, and again on Tigris during the Andrean Wars.
Historians were still arguing over details of the slide sixty years before into the war between Greenway and Pacifica, the only one ever fought between star systems. It was a war that neither side wanted. The critical factor seemed to have been everyone’s conviction that armed conflict was impossible. Both governments therefore had felt free to engage in threats and posturing.
The shooting began when a PacForce destroyer mistook a cruise ship for an intelligence-gathering mission and fired on it, killing 212 passengers and most of the crew. When they refused to apologize—the liner apparently had been off course—the steps to war had followed swiftly one after another.
The conflict eventually raged for eighteen months. There were several major battles. Embargoes were placed on third parties, raids against military targets spilled over and killed tens of thousands, and electronic warfare had constantly shut down power grids and computer systems.
Markis Kane became one of the celebrated names during the war. He began as an escort captain and ended as the commanding officer of a squadron of destroyers. He was decorated half a dozen times. He avenged the worst atrocity of the conflict, the terror attack on Khatalan, which killed sixty thousand people, by destroying the battle cruiser Hammurabi, which had led the assault. His best-known exploit, however, was at Armagon, where his squadron disrupted an attacking line of destroyers. His own vessel, the escort 376, had been badly damaged and was for a time thought lost. He brought it back full of holes, its guidance systems gone, its weapons blown out, half its crew dead. But it had arrived in home skies with all flags flying.
The exploit had entered story and song. Books had been written, and there were few children on Greenway who had not played at being Markis Kane on the 376.
The Third Fleet had been Greenway’s principal attack arm. It had won most of the victories, and absorbed most of the casualties. Its commander in chief had risen to the premiership on the strength of his performance, and its veterans still gathered in meeting places around the world.
The Mighty Third Memorial Museum was located on a peaceful hilltop on the western edge of Seabright, where, according to tradition, women and men from Earth had made their first landing on Greenway. The site looked down on a reflecting pool and a carefully cut green lawn and a series of walkways. Landing pads accommodated hundreds of visitors daily.
Kim stepped out of her cab and strolled up a gravel path that wound beneath a clutch of ancient oaks. Two of them were supposed to have been planted by the crew of that first lander, launched by the Constellation. But the descent had been six hundred years ago and the oaks couldn’t be more than half that old. Nevertheless it was a pleasant legend and no one bothered to dispute it.
The day was gorgeous, full of sunlight and the smell of the sea. Kids, tourists, and students were everywhere. She went inside, checked the guide, and walked into the east wing. An entire section was given over to the 376 and to Markis Kane.
There were photos of the hero, parts of the ship itself, and a mock-up of the flight deck. The actual command chair was encased behind a glass wall. One of the ship’s laser cannons pointed down a hallway. Personal articles of the crew were laid out, including a jacket that had belonged to Kane. The original logs were there, contained on two disks that gleamed like diamonds on the arm of the command chair. Copies were on sale in the museum store. And there was a strip of bloody cloth that the ship’s engineer had used to tie down the fuel leads after the 376 had taken a hit.
Kim read a copy of a letter sent to the parents of one of the crew killed on the mission.
She entered the VR tank and went through the flight, watching everything through Kane’s eyes. She emerged shaken, impressed by the courage and tenacity of the man.
Kane could not possibly have been part of a hoax. Not under any circumstances she could imagine. Therefore, if he’d told Sheyel nothing had happened, that should end the matter. And yet—
“Ah, Kim.” She turned and looked into the amiable features of Mikel Alaam, the museum director. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Good morning, Mikel.” She embraced him and offered her cheek for a kiss. “How’ve you been?”
Alaam wore his hair shoulder length. He had the sort of professional aloofness one usually finds in museum directors, fiction writers, and morticians. “Quite well, thank you. What brings you to the Mighty Third?”
“I’m interested in Markis Kane.”
“Ah, yes. He’s a fascinating man. He was here for the dedication. Even functioned as an advisor when we put the exhibition together.” They had pictures from the event: Kane drinking coffee with a couple of the technicians, Kane wielding a boltlight, Kane laughing with somebody’s kids.
“Really? When was that?”
“Oh, a long time ago. I was only an intern then, but I actually got to meet him. In fact I shook his hand.” He gazed soulfully at his palm.
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Not much. He was a friend of Art Wescott, who was the director at the time. I thought he seemed embarrassed by all the fuss. But we were delighted to have him. That was when they’d just dedicated the museum.”
“So it was—?”
“Around, what, 575. Sure, that was our first year.” He looked at the flight deck mock-up. “Yes,” Alaam continued. “He walked around, talked to everybody, signed autographs. Decent man. Not like some of these people—”
The room was bright with sunlight. Like Kane’s reputation.
Kim’s cab moved north up the coastline through a gray sky.
Ahead, Mount Morghani stood directly astride the shore line, overlooking Wheeling Bay. Morghani had provided a string of dictators with a natural fortress during the long years of their rule over the island empire. Esther Hox had carved from its slopes the Black Hall, a stronghold from which she directed military operations against the bands of rebels who tried unsuccessfully for four decades to unseat her.