Path of the Fury Read online

  He gave her a graceful, elegant bow and punched the hatch burton. It opened, then whispered shut behind him.

  Chapter Eight

  This invisible bubble was getting tiresome, Alicia thought, eyeing the empty tables around her in the lounge. No one would ever be crude enough to mention her insanity—but no one wanted to get too close to her, either.

  she complained.

 

  Alicia snorted, and hooked a chair further under the opposite side of the table to rest her heels on it. Her dialogues with Tisiphone no longer felt odd, which worried her from time to time, but not nearly so much as they comforted her. She had to be so wary, especially of her friends, that the relief of open conversation was almost unspeakable. Of course, her lips twitched wryly, it was still possible Tannis was right, but their exchanges remained a vast relief, even if Tisiphone didn’t exist.

 

 

  There was vast amusement in Tisiphone’s mental “voice.”

 

  She turned her eyes—their eyes?—to the lounge’s out-sized view port as the transport settled into orbit around Soissons, and even Tisiphone fell silent. The port lacked the image enhancement of one of the viewer stations, but that only made the view even more impressive.

  Soissons was very Earth-like—or, rather, very like Earth had been a thousand years before. More of its surface was land, and the ice caps were larger, for Soissons lay almost ten light-minutes from its G2 primary, but its deep blue seas and fleece-white clouds were breathtaking, and Soissons had been settled after man had learned to look after his things. Old Earth was still dealing with the traumas of eight millennia of civilization, but humanity had taken far greater care with the impact of the changes inflicted here. There were none or the megalopolises of Old Earth or the older Core Worlds, and she could almost smell the freshness of the air even from orbit.

  Yet there were two billion people on that planet, however careful they were to preserve it, and the Franconia System had been selected as a sector capital because of its industrial power. Soisson’s skies teemed with orbital installations protected by formidable defensive emplacements, and she craned her head, watching intently, as the transport drifted neatly through them under a minute fraction of its full drive power. A Fleet spacedock filled the port, vast enough to handle superdreadnoughts, much less the slender battle-cruiser undergoing routine maintenance, and beyond it loomed the spidery skeleton of a full-fledged shipyard.

  a voice said in her brain, and her eyes moved under their own power. It was still a bit unnerving to find herself focusing on something of interest to another, but it no longer bothered her as much as it had, and Tisiphone didn’t exactly have a finger with which to point.

  The thought faded as her own interest sharpened, and she frowned at the small ship near one edge of the yard.

  It appeared to be in the late stages of fitting out. Indeed, but for all the bits and pieces of yard equipment drifting near it she would have said it was completed. She watched a yard shuttle mate with one of the transparent access tubes, disgorging a flock of techs—minute dots of colored coveralls at this distance—and nibbled the inside of her lip.

  Tisiphone’s question was well taken. Alicia had seen more warships and transports than she cared to recall during her career, but never one quite like this. Its bulbous Fasset drive housing dwarfed the rest of its hull, but it was too big for a dispatch boat. At the same time, it was too small for a Fleet transport, even assuming anyone would stick that monster drive on a bulk carrier. It looked to fall somewhere between a light and heavy cruiser for size, perhaps four or five hundred meters at the outside—it was hard to be sure with only yard shuttles for a reference—yet someone had grafted a battleship’s drive onto it, which promised an awesome turn of speed.

  Their transport drifted closer, bound for a nearby personnel terminal, and her eyes widened as she saw the recessed weapon hatches. There were far more of them than there should have been on such a small hull, especially one with that huge drive. Unless . . .

  She inhaled sharply.

 

  Interest sharpened Tisiphone’s mental voice, for she’d encountered several mentions of the alpha synth ships, especially in the secured data she’d accessed from the transport’s data net.

 

  The small ship floated out of their view as the transport lined up on the personnel terminal, and Alicia leaned back in her chair, wondering what it would be like to become an alpha synth pilot.

  Lonely, for starters. Roughly sixty percent of humanity could use neural receptors to interface with their technological minions, but no more than twenty percent could sustain the contact required to maintain a synth link— the direct, point-to-point connection which made a computer a literal extension of themselves—without becoming “lost,” and less than ten percent could handle one of the cyber synth links which allowed them to interact with an artificial intelligence. Many who could refused to do so, and it was hard to blame them, given the eccentricities and far from infrequent bouts of outright insanity to which AIs were prone. It couldn’t be very reassuring to know your cybernetic henchman could wipe you out right along with it, even if it did give you a subordinate of quite literally inhuman capabilities.

  But from the bits and pieces she’d read, people who could (and would) take on an alpha synth link were even rarer—and probably weren’t playing with a full deck. The highbrows might be patting themselves for finally producing an insanity-proof AI, but who in her right mind would voluntarily fuse herself with a self-aware computer? Interacting with one was one thing; making yourself a part of it was something else. Alicia had no anti-tech bias, yet the idea of becoming the organic half of a bipolar intelligence in a union only death could dissolve was far from appealing.

  She paused with a short, sharp bark of laughter. One or two heads turned, and she smiled cheerfully at the curious, amused by the way they whipped their eyes back away from her. One more indication of her looniness, she supposed, but it really was humorous. Here she was, uneasy about the possibility of merging with another personality—her of all people!

  She chuckled again, then drained her glass and stood as Tannis entered the lounge. Her slightly fixed smile told Alicia it was time to debark and face the dirt-side psych types, and she sighed and set down the empty glass with a smile of her own, wondering if it looked equally pasted on.

  Fleet Admiral Subrahmanyan Treadwell, Governor General of the Franconian Sector, disliked planets. Born and raised in one of the Solarian belter habitats, he saw Imperial Worlds as inconveniently immobile defensive problems and other people’s planets as fat targets that couldn’t run away, but that hadn’t worried Seamus II’s ministers when they tapped him for his job.

  Treadwell was a lean, bland-faced man with hard eyes. Some people had been fooled by the face into missing the eyes, but he was a man who’d done everything the hard way. Unable to accept even rudimentary augmentation and so disqualified forever from commanding a capital ship by his inability to key into its command net, he’d cut his way to flag rank by sheer brilliance, using nothing but his brain and a keyboa
rd. Three times senior strategy instructor at the Imperial War College and twice Second Space Lord, he was acknowledged as the Fleet’s premier strategist, yet he’d never commanded a fleet in space. It was an understandably sensitive point, and coupled with a certain antipathy for those whose mental processes seemed slower than his own but who could be augmented, it made him . . . difficult at times. Like now.

  “So what you’re saying, Colonel McIlheny,” he said in a flat voice, “is that we still don’t have the least idea where these pirates are based, why they’ve adopted this extraordinary operational approach, or where they’re going to hit next. Is that a fair summation?”

  “Yes, sir.” McIlheny squelched an ignoble desire to hide behind his own admiral. It would have looked silly, since Admiral Lady Rosario Gomez, Baroness Nova Tampico and Knight of the Solar Cross, was exactly one hundred and fifty-seven centimeters tall and massed only forty-eight kilos.

  “But you, Admiral Gomez,” Treadwell turned his eyes on the commander of the Franconian Fleet District, “still think we have sufficient strength to deal with this on our own?”

  “That isn’t what I said, Governor.” The silver-haired admiral might be petite, but her professional stature matched Treadwell’s, and she met his eyes calmly. “What I said is that I feel requesting additional capital units is not the optimum solution. It’s unlikely to be granted, and what we really need are more light units. Whoever these people are, they can’t possibly match our firepower— assuming we could find them.”

  “Indeed.” Treadwell tapped keys on a memo pad, then smiled frostily at Lady Rosario. ‘I assume you’ve run a minimum force level analysis on them based on their ability to destroy planetary SLAM drones before they wormhole?”

  “I have,” Gomez said, still calm.

  “Then perhaps you can explain where they found the firepower for that? SLAM drones are not exactly easy targets.”

  “No, sir, they aren’t. On the other hand, they can’t shoot back and their only defense is speed. Admittedly, it’s easier for capital ships to nail them, but enough light units—even enough corvettes—could box and intercept them well within the inner system.”

  “True, Admiral. On the other hand, we have Captain DeVries’s report that they are using Leopard-class assault shuttles. Those, you will recall, are carried—were carried, rather—only by battleships and above. Or do you wish to suggest to me that these pirates are using freighters against us?”

  “Sir,” Gomez said patiently, “I’ve never said they don’t have some capital ships. Certainly the Leopards were carried by capital ships, but there’s no intrinsic reason they couldn’t be operated by refitted heavy or even light cruisers.” She watched Treadwell’s brows knit and continued in an unhurried voice. “I’m not suggesting that’s the case. A possibility, yes; a probability, no. What I am saying is that we have three full squadrons of dreadnoughts, and there’s no way independent pirates can match that. Our problem isn’t destroying them, Governor, it’s finding them; and for that I need additional scouts, not the Home Fleet.”

  “Admiral Brinkman?” Treadwell glanced at Vice Admiral Sir Amos Brinkman, Gomez’s second-in-command. “Is that your opinion as well?”

  “Well, Governor,” Brinkman stroked his mustache and glanced at his senior officer from the corner of one eye, “I’d have to say Lady Rosario has put her finger on our problem. On the other hand, the exact fleet mix to solve it might be open to some legitimate dispute.”

  McIlheny kept his face blank. Brinkman was a competent man in space, but it was common knowledge that he wanted an eventual governorship of his own, and he was very careful about offending influential people.

  “Continue, Admiral Brinkman,” Treadwell invited.

  “Yes, sir. It seems to me that we have two possible approaches. One is Admiral Gomez’s suggestion that we station additional pickets, possibly backed by a few battle-cruisers, in our inhabited systems in order to detect, deter, and if possible, track the raiders. The second is to request additional heavy units and station a division of dreadnoughts in each inhabited system in order to intercept and destroy the next raid.” He raised his hands, palms uppermost. “It seems to me that we’re really talking about a question of emphasis, not fundamental strategy. Frankly, I could be satisfied by either approach, so long as we follow it without distractions.”

  “Governor,” Lady Rosario didn’t even glance at Brinkman, “I’m not disputing the desirability of destroying the enemy on their next attack, but getting the First Space Lord to turn loose that many capital ships will be a major operation in its own right. I have thirty-six dreadnoughts, but covering our inhabited systems in the strength Admiral Brinkman suggests would require sixty-eight. That’s almost double our current strength, and given the Rishathan presence on our frontier, we’d need at least another two squadrons for border security. That brings us up to ninety-two dreadnoughts, close to twenty-five percent of Fleet’s entire active peacetime strength in that class, not to mention the escorts to screen them.” She shrugged. “You and I both know the fiscal constraints Countess Miller is wrestling with—and how thin we’re already stretched. The First Space Lord isn’t going to give us that many of his best capital ships, not with all the other calls on the Fleet.”

  “You let me worry about Lord Jurawski, Admiral,” Treadwell’s eyes were flinty. “I’ve Known him a long time, and I believe that if I point out that his alternative is to lose at least one more populated world before we can even find the enemy, I can bring him to see reason.”

  “With great respect, Governor, I feel that’s unlikely.”

  “We’ll see. However, it will require some months to redeploy forces of that magnitude in any case, which means we must do our best in the meantime. Where are we in that respect?”

  “About where we were before Mathison’s World,” Lady Rosario admitted, and gestured to McIlheny.

  “In essence, Governor,” the colonel said, “most of what we’ve learned from Mathison’s World is bad. We’ve positively IDed one ex-Fleet officer among the raiders Captain DeVries killed, and a general search of personnel data has uncovered six more officers whose personnel jackets falsely indicate that they died in the same shuttle accident. This is a clear suggestion that the pirates have at least one fairly highly placed inside man.”

  “Probably some damned clerk in BuPers,” Treadwell snorted. “How highly placed d’you have to be to cook computer files?” He waved an impatient hand. “I admit it’s a disturbing possibility, but let’s concentrate on what we can prove.” He looked back at Gomez. “Dispositions, Admiral?”

  “They’re in my report, Governor. I’ve increased the pickets and split up BatRon Seventeen to provide a couple of dreadnoughts for each of the six most populous Crown systems. That should be enough to deal with the enemy if he cares to engage, but it’s clearly insufficient to destroy him if he elects to run. Unfortunately, I can’t reduce my reserve strength below two squadrons without inviting the Rishatha to stick their noses in, so our Incorporated Worlds will have to rely on their local defenses.”

  “Anything more on the possibility the Jung Association is involved?” Treadwell demanded, turning back to McIlheny, and the colonel shrugged.

  “They’ve denied it, and our reports on their fleet deployments support that. In addition, they’ve volunteered to provide protection for Domino and Kohlman. Those are low probability targets—Domino’s too small and poor, and Kohlman’s an Incorporated World with fairly good orbital defenses—but, then I’d have said a barely established colony like Mathison’s World was an even more unlikely target. My personal belief is that the Jungians have nothing to do with this and want to protect our closest populations to demonstrate their innocence and good faith now that we’ve begun getting the sector organized, but I certainly can’t prove that to be the case.”

  “Um. I’m inclined to agree with you. Keep an eye on them, but concentrate on the assumption that they’re innocent bystanders.” Treadwell drummed lightly o
n the table. “Damn it, we need those extra battle squadrons, Admiral Gomez! You’ve just said it yourself—we can only cover a handful of systems effectively, and imperial subjects are dying out there.”

  “Granted, Governor, and no one will be more delighted than I if you can pry those ships loose from Lord Jurawski. As you say, however, we have to do the best we can in the meantime, and we could get extra cruisers out here a lot more quickly than HQ is going to turn dreadnoughts loose.”

  “But if we ask for them, they’ll take the easy way out and give us only light units.” Treadwell smiled thinly, “I know how the Lords of Admiralty work—I’ve been one. Asking for the big stuff will convince them we’re serious and probably get the actual firepower out here faster.”

  “As you say, sir.” Lady Rosario folded her hands on the table. She remained convinced Treadwell was on the wrong track, but as Brinkman had said, the case could be argued either way. And he was her boss.

  “Very well. Now,” Treadwell returned to McIlheny, “what’s the latest word on our drop commando?”

  “Sir, that’s really a Cadre matter, and—“

  “It may be a Cadre matter, but it happened in my bailiwick, Colonel.”

  “Agreed, sir. What I was going to say is that I’m not very well informed because Brigadier Keita has been personally supervising the case. My understanding is that there’s been no change. Captain DeVries remains adamant that she’s been, um, possessed by a figure out of ancient Greek mythology, and nothing seems capable of altering that belief. They’re still searching for a therapeutic approach to break through it, but without success.