“Calm, rock-sibling. Like the Greatvein, all our warships and shift carriers have backup systems, completely firewalled from the primaries. Our fleet will not be rendered inert for long.”
Tuxae turned on H’toor Qooiiz. “No, but the instant that our primary system failed, what happened?”
H’toor Qooiiz’s polyps stopped in mid wave. “The plants, the drives—!”
“Exactly. They shut down immediately. The moment the systems controlling and maintaining fusion go offline, the reaction must terminate or there will be a catastrophic explosion. But the danger does not stop there. A minute after the fusion plant ceases to function, our antimatter containment cells will have exhausted their reserve power. If the power is not restored, timers will trigger piezo-electric-fused charges to jettison the antimatter before it breaches containment and annihilates us. Only then can the crew commence a cold restart of the fusion plant, and may we begin the slow process of rebuilding our antimatter stocks.”
H’toor’s usually pleasant voice was a rasping clatter. “And in this case, they cannot take any of those recovery steps until they have ensured the virus is gone—by wiping clean the control systems of every processor on every ship.”
“Correct. And that means—”
“We will all be without power, communications, or control for at least thirty minutes. Probably much more.”
Tuxae settled down on his belly, surprised at how quickly he could become resigned to death. “The humans are clever, but they could not have done this. They had no access to our systems or programming languages until, at most, forty days ago. And it would have taken them weeks just to get a working knowledge of that material, much less defeat our best security software.”
“What are you saying, Tuxae?”
“I am saying that our fellow-Ee’ar Darzhee Kut was right. It was folly to violate the Twenty-first Accord. This is the work of the Dornaani.”
H’toor buzzed anxiously. “I just hope this is today’s last unpleasant surprise…”
In the bowels of the Scharnhorst—one of the seven hollow asteroids that some military bureaucrat had designated the Dreadnought class—Admiral Edward Schubert studied the now-distant thermal blooms that marked the position of the receding Arat Kur belt fleet. It was a sight he had been waiting to see for better than ten weeks. Ever since top-secret word had arrived from Barnard’s Star that the Convocation had not gone well, his naturally concealed warships had been compelled to shut down all their primary power plants. Although many meters of rock separated their modest emissions from hostile sensor sweeps, complete safety required a minimum energy ops profile, powered solely by batteries and a handful of fuel cells. But on this long-awaited day, the hiding was finally over.
So far, the day had gone largely according to the projected course of events. First, Schubert had received tightbeam confirmation that Case Leo Gap had been a success and that Admiral Lord Halifax’s Relief Task Force One had arrived. Then came the confirmation from Earth that the ground attack had commenced in Indonesia. Less than an hour later, the Arat Kur had made sudden preparations for departure, leaving two small frigates as a holding force and not even stopping to recall any of the technicians and the modest military detachment with which they had occupied Vesta’s antimatter production facilities. After the frigates were dispatched, those paltry security troops would be simple fodder for Commodore James Beall’s SEAL Teams, formerly based on Mars, and which had arrived on Schubert’s hull a few days after the discouraging report of the Convocation’s outcome. Those overeager spec ops units shifted from bored and sullen to smiling and hyperactive when they were informed they had been given the green light to retake Vesta, now that the some unknown operative code-named Odysseus had shot the arrow that announced the successful culmination of Case Timber Pony.
Schubert turned toward Beall’s senior field CO, Commander Chris Berman, who was almost tapping his foot in impatience. “Commander Berman.”
The response was immediate, eager. “Yes, Herr Admiral?”
For Schubert, who had worked with SEALs before, Berman was a pleasant change: an American who bothered to use the honorifics appropriate to the nationalities of the persons he addressed. Schubert smiled. “Your men are in readiness, I presume?”
“For weeks now, sir.”
“Very good. Do you need anything we have not yet considered?”
“I’d appreciate it if you left behind a few hunter-killer drones, lying doggo. Only thing I’m worried about is if the Roaches have left any of their own drones on low-power monitoring missions. If they see us make a move for the antimatter facilities, I’d like to have our own drones ready to preempt their preemption.”
“Prudent. Operational compartmentalization protocols forbade me to reveal this earlier, but your request is already part of our plans. There shall be half a dozen drone-killing drones in close protective overwatch as you retake Vesta. Anything else?”
“Regular updates, sir.”
“Updates? I do not understand.”
“Sir, we’re on an important mission, but you know where all my guys want to be fighting.”
“Earth.”
“Right. They want to squash some Roaches and skin some Sloths down dirtside. They want payback, sir. But since they can’t be there themselves, they are really eager to know how that fight is unfolding, sir. We know that we’ve got to retake this asteroid antimatter facility, rig it to blow if the Arat Kur come back, take ourselves up with it if we need to. They understand the strategic exigencies, sir—but in their hearts, and heads, they’re all back home, fighting tooth and nail for everything they know and love.”
“I understand. Ms. Kauffer?”
“Ja, Herr Admiral?”
“Commander Berman is to receive hourly tightbeam updates on both our action against the enemy fleet, and events on Earth. I make it your responsibility.”
Kauffer smiled at Commander Berman and the three hulking SEALs behind him. “It would be my pleasure, Herr Admiral, Commander.”
Chris Berman tipped a salute at her. “Our gratitude, ma’am.”
Schubert feared his smile might start becoming maudlin. “Anything else, Commander?”
“When you come back, bring a case of Dunkelbier. We’ll have worked up a powerful thirst.”
Schubert laughed. “I will see what I can do. Now, I shall not hold you further, Commander.”
The American saluted. “So long, Admiral.”
Schubert stopped him. “We should not say so, Commander. Let us say, rather, Auf Wiedersehen.”
Berman let his salute fall away, put out his hand. Schubert shook it, hoped that the American would survive. Zero gee ops in hard vacuum had the highest of all casualty rates. To be hit was usually to be dead.
The American looked Schubert in the eye, smiled back. “Auf Wiedersehen.” He backed up, snapped a salute, turned to his men. “Let’s see if you guys are worth a case of good German suds.” They left the bridge, a muted “oo-rah” amputated by the closing of the lift.
Schubert turned, looked at the almost vanished thermal blooms of the Arat Kur belt fleet. “Weapons Officer?”
“Ready, Herr Admiral.”
“Release fifty of our hunter-killer drones. Target the two frigates the Arat Kur left at Vesta. I want them overwhelmed and destroyed within fifteen minutes. I require absolute local security.”