“Well . . . ” Uncle Eric seemed oddly reluctant. “This year, accordin’ to projections. No way to be absolutely sure, so they put a large margin of error in. Didn’t want a wholesale infection; that would increase the chance of detection too much. We coded a stop; it replicates a certain number of times and then goes noninfectious. Then we used unknowin’ vectors for the various targets: their command an’ control echelons, Space Force and so forth. There may be some spillover to the bulk of their military, even civilians, but not much. You little brush beyond Luna gave us a random sample that fitted right in with our best-case hypothesis.”
“Trigger?” she said.
“Coded microwave; resonates, activates it. Irregular period beyond that, but once it starts, stress accelerates the process.”
“No way of shieldin’?”
“Not unless yo know. Heavy tranquilizers an’ psychotropics can mitigate the effects, until the thing cycles itself out; takes about four, five days iff’n the subject is restrained that way. But even so, you not worth much in that condition. Questionin’ the test subject indicates it’s like . . . a combination of Berserkergang and paranoid schizophrenia, with some mighty nasty hallucinations thrown in. Works best on the highly intelligent.”
Yolande sipped again at the fiery liquid, imagining the consequences. In the crowded workstations of a battle platform, in the tight-knit choreography of a warship’s control center. A hard grin fought its way toward her face, was pressed back.
“Effectiveness?” she asked.
“Depends . . . they’re more automated than we are, but they still haven’t cut humans out of their action loops, not at the initiation stage. Given surprise, an’ an all-out attack along with it, the projections indicate we could take out their Earth-orbit capacity to about ninety percent, and still come through with enough of our own to block what little of their offensive strength survived. We’ve built redundant, fo’ exactly that purpose.”
“Ah,” Yolande exclaimed. “The Militants, they must know, too! That’s why they’re confident enough to talk openly about startin’ the Final War.”
“Their top triumvirate. Gayner was in on it from the beginnin’. The rest, no, of course not. They’re just the bloodthirsty nihilistic loons they come across as.”
“Shitfire,” Yolande whispered again. The alcohol seemed to slide down her throat without effect. “Gayner nearly lost it right there on the viewer when you got the reelection vote, back in ’97,” she said.
Eric smiled thinly. “One of my mo’ pleasant memories. She was wild to be in this chair when we reached go-level.” A harsh laughter. “What immortality, fo’ the Archon who led the Race to victory in the Final War? Someone in that position could do anythin’, get any program put through. Trouble would be to keep the Citizenry from electin’ him—or her—to godhood.”
“When do we attack?” Yolande said.
“You, too,” the Archon said with resigned bitterness. “I’ve been hearin’ that question with increasin’ frequency fo’ six months now. Accompanied by thinly veiled threats, from Gayner and her cutthroats.”
She looked at him bewildered for a moment, then felt her eyes narrow. “Why not, fo’ Wotan’s sake?” she said. “Every moment we hesitate longer than we have to is deadly dangerous. Use it or we risk losin’ it.”
Eric gave a jerk of his chin. “Oh, yes. They behind in biotech, but makin’ slow progress . . . and computer analysis is basic to that, too. The rate of increase in computer technology is slowin’—the experts say it’s pushin’ the theoretical limits with known architectures—but it hasn’t stopped. Sooner or later, they’ll get a clue; if nothin’ else, from the strategic deployment choices we’ve been makin’. On the other hand . . . ”He looked up at her and tapped his fingers on the desk. “This incident of yourn, it wasn’t the bioanalysis of the prisoners that got you interested initially, was it?”
“No. Somethin’ destroyed that stingfighter. Some sort of interference with they infosystems.”
“Our nightmare. And they’ve been matchin’ our deployments. Increasin’ the proportion of orbit-to-ground weapons. Exactly the sort of thing you’d put in, if you expected to be in a position to hammer Earth from space with impunity.”
“Wait,” Yolande said with alarm. “They could just be matchin’ us tit fo’ tat. Their buildup didn’t start until well after our current six-year plan.”
“But it points to somethin’ they are doin’ to us. And . . . ” he hesitated. “I saw the results of nuclear weapons, in Europe, back at the end of the last war. Stoppin’ almost everythin’ isn’t the same as stoppin’ everythin’.” He looked out through the wall, at the lights of the city winking on below, and continued very softly. “Not to mention how many of them we’d have to kill. Not to mention . . . ” He looked up. “Arch-Strategos, the final decision in these matters is mine; the responsibility comes with the office. We will move when I authorize.”
Yolande rose and set the peaked cap on her head. “Understood, Excellence,” she said, saluting. Then: “I’m takin’ a week’s leave, Uncle Eric. That all right?”
“Oh, yes. We won’t begin the war without you, niece,” he said. “Besides, it’ll keep the enemy from wonderin’ what you doin’ back on Earth.”
Yolande grinned at the sarcasm, it was just like Uncle Eric. A little too squeamish, she thought. But basically a good man.
“Service to the State,” she said.
“Glory to the Race,” he replied.
She left, and he turned down the lights, watching the multicolored glow of Archona below. Minutes stretched, and he sat motionless. “Glory indeed,” he said. His mouth twisted. “Glory.”
* * *
SPIN HABITAT SEVEN
NEW AMERICA PROJECT
CENTRAL BELT, ALLIANCE INTERDICTED ZONE
BETWEEN THE ORBITS OF MARS AND JUPITER
MARCH 31, 1998
“First-rate dinner,” Manuel Obregon said.
Cindy Lefarge nodded thanks and finished loading the dishes into the washer. She touched a control and the cylindrical hopper sank into the countertop. A quiet hum sounded through the serving window. The Lefarge living-dining area was open-plan in the manner that had become fashionable in the ’70s, when the price of live-in help rose beyond the budgets of the upper middle class. It always was, here in the Belt, she thought with slight cynicism. Amazing how fast domestic gadgets got invented when it was really necessary. The thought was a welcome distraction from what would be said tonight. She picked up the tray with the coffee and carried it around to set on the table.
There were six others dining at Brigadier Lefarge’s house that night, four men and two women. Department heads, or in two cases shockingly not, a few steps further down the chain of command. They shifted uneasily, buying a few more minutes passing sugar and cream around until everyone was settled; these were people of authority, but not military, not conspirators. Scientists for the most part, or scientific administrators at least, engineers, used to hard-material problems and juggling workers and resources. This smelled political, and not office politics either.
“All right,” Fred said abruptly. Cindy could feel a harshness behind the tone, the same force that had been hag-riding him since his return from Earth. There were new lines graven in the heavy-boned face, down from nose to mouth. “First, let me say you’re all here because I trust you. Your intentions, and your ability to keep your mouths shut. We’ve all worked together for . . . at least a decade now. You’ve all shown that you are willing to cut yourselves off from the outside world to work on the Project in its various phases.” He paused, looked down at his hands for a moment. “I think most of you who haven’t been told have guessed; the New America is not the only purpose of this installation.”