Extremis (55 page)

Zero seconds.

Buried deep inside a lightly pressurized, modified coolant sleeve, two objects—both of which were needed to resist the expansion of a coiled trigger-spring—finally completed the changes that had begun when they received the activating microwave and radio pulses from the
Celmithyr’theaarnouw
seven minutes earlier.

One object was a bio-decay capsule, usually designed for the precision-timed release of targeted drugs. Its synthetic bio-gel suspension reached the end of its activated life cycle and swiftly deliquesced. The capsule collapsed.

The second object—a timed mechanical-resistance actuator—gave way at the same instant. A restraining tab—stressed to breaking by the constant pressure of the coiled spring beneath it—finally tripped: the tab’s precisely calculated nanomatrix resistance was designed to fracture when the accumulated force exerted upon it exceeded its miniscule lifetime load rating.

Released when the two objects collapsed, the trigger-spring shot forward, slamming a primed actuator rod into the butt plate of a piezo-electric cell.

The cell’s discharge both activated the power core’s test probe—which swung immediately back into contact with the drive’s direct power feed—and also sent a conducting arc through the now-linked systems.

Suddenly hot-wired into connection with the drive coils, the power core discharged.

The twenty-nine gigawatt ignition pulse hit the tuner coils, activating the engine for under 0.5 seconds before the sustained heat vaporized the test probe and the power level in the core was exhausted.

But only 0.02 seconds into that discharge, and therefore, 0.48 seconds before the power ran out, the crippled fighter’s reactionless drive kicked briefly into life.

At that moment, Medicine Ball’s entire fifty-one-ton mass was instantaneously accelerated to 0.12 c, cocooned within its engine’s momentary drive field.

However, the Arduan heavy superdreadnought’s own drive field refused to share folded space with this unexpected internal interloper. Contrapolarized gravitic forces, normally used to bend space selectively, tore each other asunder—a split second after Medicine Ball proved just how much energy is released when fifty-one tons of fighter impacts the interior of an Arduan warship’s armored hull at a speed of 20,500 kilometers per second.

* * *

Sixty-three seconds later, on the bridge of the
Celmithyr’theaarnouw
, a small star flared briefly into existence at the center of the stern-looking viewscreen. Kiiraathra’ostakjo looked down at Lubell, who smiled his huge, toothy smile—and earned a warning growl in return. Orions only showed their teeth when they meant business—bloody business—and the one courtesy they invariably expected from humans was to remember, and follow, that custom. Lubell closed his mouth so tightly and so quickly that he seemed to have swallowed his teeth.

“You may report now, Ops,” muttered Kiiraathra’ostakjo.

“Target destroyed, Least Claw.”

“This I surmised. But thank you.” He turned to Wethermere. “Congratulations, Mr. Wethermere. In truth, it will be a pity to see you go.” Kiiraathra’ostakjo had the gratification—finally—of saying something which surprised Wethermere, rather than vice versa.

“I’m going? Where?”

Kiiraathra’ostakjo looked at the ship’s chronometer. “I suspect you shall find out in about two hours. Until then, you will join me in my quarters for what I expect to be a mutually unpleasant experience.”

“Which is?”

“Teaching you how to improve your pronunciation of the Tongue of Tongues. Consider it my parting gift to you.”

* * *

Two hours and fourteen minutes later, Ossian Wethermere was standing at attention before Admiral Krishmahnta in her ready room. She had a new memo in her hand, and waved it at him. “And here’s another ‘anonymous’ and harebrained plan—this one about energy-torpedo battery reconfiguration for capital ships. It’s yours, isn’t it?”

“Uh…yes, sir. How could you tell?”

“How could I not? This kind of inspired insanity doesn’t cross my desk every day—and certainly not as an anonymous memo. Which is why I’ve got to get you the blazes out of my fleet.”

“Sir?”

“You’re to report to the courier
Darcy Maisson
as soon as you leave this ward room and make straight for your new assignment.”

“Yes, sir.” Wethermere tried not to look too relieved, but—for a few seconds—Krishmahnta’s tone had made it sound as though his next duty station was going to be in a small, secure room in the
Gallipoli
’s brig. “You did say I have a new assignment, sir?”

“A
very
new assignment, Commander. Yes, you can get your jaw up off the deck whenever it suits you, Mr. Wethermere. For now, your promotion to lieutenant commander is merely a brevet rank—but if you’re successful on your next assignment, I just might be able to make it stick for good.”

“Yes, sir. And, again—what’s my new assignment?”

“Why, to get these new energy-torpedo batteries installed in the new hulls we’re laying down back in Tilghman.”

“Sir, with all due respect, I’m no engineer. I’m just a—”

“You’re a person who makes things happen, who gets things done, Commander. I’ve got hundreds of engineers, but not a lot of—well, whatever the hell kind of specialist
you
are. And you have got to—
got to
—make this armament upgrade happen.”

“But, sir—”

“Commander, as I dismiss you, I will give you two choices. You either turn yourself around, head to Tilghman, and get to work—or, if I hear another peep out of you, I will have you taken off this ship in irons. And you’ll stay in those irons until you get to Tilghman.”

Wethermere snapped a salute, about-faced, and exited.

At best speed.

19

Virtue Upon the Scaffold

Curse on his virtues! they’ve undone his country. Such popular humanity is treason.
—Addison

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne.
—Lowell

Prisoner Holding Facility, Resistance Regional Headquarters, Charybdis Islands, Bellerophon/New Ardu

“Sergeant! We’re not done yet!”

Harry Li was glad he was facing away from the Hider; that gave him the momentary relief and luxury of rolling his eyes. He finished his ocular acrobatics and turned to face his CO. “Sorry, sir. I thought that was all.”

“You’ll know when we’re done. I’ll say ‘dismissed.’ ” Heide smiled wanly; for him, this was the very paragon of pithy wit. Li managed not to sigh.

“Yes, sir. How else can I help you, sir?”

“Not help me, Li. I just need you to be aware of certain—developments.”

When Heide became vague and mysterious, it usually did not signify anything good. In Li’s growing experience, it was a sure sign that Heide’s better nature (if such a thing existed) was not completely reconciled to a course of action his brain had decided was incumbent upon him, as per his improbably exacting interpretations of the Marine Corps’ Practices and Procedures Manual. “Developments, sir?”

“Yes, Li. I’m sure you’re aware that, in the months since the rescue operation in Melantho, the surviving artists we did not successfully extract have been making all sorts of outrageous claims regarding the actual history, intents, and nature of these so-called Arduans.”

“Yes, sir. I’ve heard.”
Just like everyone else who lives on this planet, jackass.

“Unfortunately, the artists we
did
successfully rescue are saying almost exactly the same things, despite our best attempts to undo their brainwashing. This is making our position difficult, Sergeant.”

“Difficult, sir?”
And what do you mean by “our” position, Captain Weasel?

“Yes. You see, our best analysis shows that the public is beginning to show signs of actually dignifying these lies with some credence—largely because they have heard, by the grapevine, that the artists in our custody are making similar claims.”

“I see, sir.”

“I’m not sure you do, Sergeant. If we let this type of muttering go on, it is likely to undermine the resolve of the general populace, even the Resistance. So we have to stop it quickly, before it gets any worse.”

“What did you have in mind, sir?”

The Hider seemed to almost take umbrage at the somewhat conversational idiom Li had employed to ask his question. “What I have in mind, Sergeant, is to approach this with the directness and decisiveness that it has warranted from the first. I propose to convene a court-martial to begin reviewing the evidence pertinent to bringing a charge of treason against Jennifer Peitchkov.”

Li started. “Treason, sir? But she—she’s a mother.”

“That will only serve to better illustrate our resolve and the extreme seriousness of the matter. After the proceedings are made public, of course. In the meantime, we will properly consider and organize the evidence, and send the message out among our own ranks that we do not believe that there is the faintest bit of validity to her preposterous claims regarding a large peace faction within the Arduan governing body, or that this war is all the result of ‘cultural misinterpretation.’ This is just the nonsense of collaborators and apologists.”

“Yes, sir. But, be that as it may, sir—
treason
?”

“Are you hard of hearing, Sergeant? Yes, of course. The charge would—must—be treason.”

“But you just referred to the artists as ‘brainwashed.’ Wouldn’t their compromised self-control excuse them from the presumption of malicious intent that is the basis of any charge of treason?”

“That is why I do not propose to try all the artists, Sergeant Li—just Peitchkov. Her case is…different. The degree of detail she recalls and recounts, the degree of mind contact she claims to have willingly made with the Arduans: I doubt all the understanding and sympathy she professes for them could be imposed by outside conditioning. She must have come to these conclusions by her own free will. And that, Sergeant Li, furnishes us with the basis for a charge of treason.”

Li nodded, and thought:
He’s actually serious. And he actually thinks it will be for the good of the Resistance and the planet. God help us all
. “Captain, if I may?”

“Certainly, Sergeant. I have time for a quick question.”

“Captain, why are you telling
me
about this?”

“Ah. Yes. Well, it seems to me that you are, historically speaking that is, a frie—a close associate—of Lieutenant McGee.” When Li made no comment, Heide had no choice but to press on. “Because of that relationship, I thought it might be a kindness to—well, prepare him. Things could get…quite difficult, I expect.”

Li couldn’t keep the frown off his face. “Captain, you’re not thinking of taking Zander away from Jennifer again, are you? That didn’t have any effect on her stories or claims, and it wasn’t good for…for morale, sir.”
Or for your life-expectancy, you rat-shit; during that week, if I had a credit for every late-night convo I heard involving a grenade in your latrine…

But Heide looked genuinely surprised. “Removing the infant? No, I hadn’t even thought of that, Sergeant. Actually, I think it would be unreasonably cruel. Given the probable outcome.”

Li’s initial reaction—to feel reassured—quickly evaporated. “Sir, what probable outcome are you talking about?”

“Why, of her trial, of course. Treason is, after all, a capital crime.”

“You…? Sir, you—you intend to
execute
her?”

“Well, that’s the whole point of a treason conviction, isn’t it? And in this case, execution is not just deserved, but is a social duty. As the French said, the execution of one well-known traitor—
pour encourager les autres
—may reform lesser offenders. Sergeant, are you well? You look quite pale.”

Li came to stiff attention. “I am well, sir.”

“Excellent. It wouldn’t do to have a namesake of the dreaded Admiral Li of the Terran Republic show anything less than true spartan endurance.”

Li kept from rolling his eyes. “Sir, I wasn’t named after the admiral. Among very traditional Chinese, like the admiral, the
family
name comes first. My family is more relaxed, so we followed the European tradition and put our family name last. But when it comes to the admiral and me both being named Li, there’s no more special intention behind it than two guys who both happen to be named Mr. Jones. Just coincidence, sir.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Still, noteworthy sharing a common heritage with such a military giant.”

“Yes, sir. I’m sure that the other Li’s must feel the same way—each one of the several hundred million of us.”

Heide looked stymied. “So many? Really? That’s quite…interesting.”

“Yes, sir,” Li said with a nod, even as he thought:
He’s even worse at conversation than command. What a loser.
“Now, Captain, if you have no further need of me, I have an urgent matter to attend to. Crucial Resistance business, Captain.”

“I see. Very well, then. Dismissed, and on your way.”

Li saluted and was, very quickly, on his way—directly to Alessandro McGee’s quarters.

* * *

When Jennifer’s voice came from behind the door—“It’s open”—Alessandro McGee found himself ready to run, to yell, to weep, to do anything but go in and speak with her. But he did.

Bearing a glass of water like a peace offering, McGee cracked the door, looked in, and spoke the best, deathless monosyllable of eternal love that came to him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Jennifer answered.

“Baby asleep?”

“Yes. In the other room.” She looked up from under her very straight bangs. “It’s good to see you, Sandro.”

McGee slipped into the room, went to the seat across from hers, and fumbled with its backrest as he looked down at her. Jennifer Peitchkov was not the most beautiful woman in the world—her nose was a little too long, her cheeks a little too full, her shoulders a little too narrow—but he had long ago stopped seeing imperfections. He only saw his Jennifer. “Hey,” he said again and tried to keep the tears from welling up in his eyes.

She looked at him…and rose quickly. “Sandro, what’s wrong?”

He looked away. “Harry Li came to see me about half an hour ago.”