The pale fall sun seemed as cold and washed out as the veiled gray sky over Prescott. Even though the sun shone a thin, driven mist of snow whirled from the sea into the faces of those gathered at the Cenotaph. It was cold enough that many of the millions watching or attending their own services shivered in their uniforms but it could have been worse this Memorial Day. This time of year it could have been a driving, freezing rain.
The wind had no chance to tear apart the sound from the massed ranks of pipers before the Cenotaph, the rough column of native stone, its base clad in polished pieces cut from nickel/iron asteroids. The pipers themselves wore faded plaids in memory of the fallen, in battles won and lost hundreds of years before humanity ever left the home planet. As the pipes had traveled to regiments in the New World, so had they been part of the spread of humanity to the stars and under alien skies played the ancient laments to honor the dead. Fifty side drums, a dozen bass drums, and three hundred pipes thundered to a final flourish that made the silence after much deeper. It was a silence that stretched long as the wind tore at the sprigs of red sea heather on every coat, or hat, before a single pipe began "Flowers of the Forest," sad, exultant, the cry for grace and for glory as old as human history, flung into the teeth of winter.
On the dais Ian Trevayne closed his eyes against the wind and the old faces around him, feeling the dislocation of being the most obviously young face among the total weight of brass around him. Had things been different he would have been just one more in a crowd. As it was, anyone could pick him out in a heartbeat, the smooth cheek and dark hair, above the rows of ribbons on his uniform. Even with antigerone treatments the other dignitaries on the platform still carried the weight of experience like a depth, just under the surface. Even though he knew better, he also knew that he projected callow youth—"an inch deep and a mile wide," his grandmother would have said. Even though people knew better, they still tended to react to him as if he were really that young. Something of which he would take ruthless advantage, if it ever came to it.
The piper was out high on the headland, silhouetted against the sky and sea. Invisible at this distance were the tiny cameras that broadcast the service all around the planet and recorded it for transmission through all human space . . . and Orion, as well. The Tabbies were crazy about pipes, oddly enough. He, himself, actually didn't like them (although, on principle, he'd never admitted it), but he waited for the trumpet call that would come after. "The Last Post" still raised a tear and this year he had so much more to mourn and remember, even as they geared up to fight and win this new war.
He was still wrapped in those memories, and that mourning, after the last trumpet note had dissipated into the chill air, and for a time no one saw fit to disturb him. He noticed the slow dispersal of the crowd no more than he did the chill. But finally he felt a gentle hand on his arm.
"Ian," said Miriam Ortega in the kind of voice one uses to awake a sleeping loved one.
He turned to face her. Even in her synthetically grown furs, she looked cold. Well, he reflected, her body is a tad older than mine, isn't it? He managed a smile. "Yes, I know. Time to be going. I was just thinking. . . ."
"Yes. I know. All those people who died. But they did all that could possibly be expected of them under the circumstances."
"Pity everyone in the government doesn't agree." He regretted the irritable words the instant they were out of his mouth, causing her to stiffen.
"There is a certain type of politician," she said in a tight voice, "whose stock in trade is pissing on the military people who bleed and die to enable those same political hacks to continue to avoid working for a living. And a certain type of journalist that gives them disproportionate coverage. In fact, I sometimes wonder if there's any other type of journalist. But nobody in the government who counts—nobody who's qualified to have an opinion—believes any of that crap."
"I know," he said, contrite. "Everyone who's read the analysis of Cyrus's report knows nothing could have been done against that kind of firepower. Especially not with stealth technology neutralized in the vicinity of this 'stealth scrambler.' And we're going to be up against those same factors in every warp-point assault in this war . . . and it's going to be a long war."
"Never a very popular thing to say," she remarked with a fleeting smile.
"Bugger popularity! It's what people need to hear, and understand. We're looking at the worst kind of war of attrition: one frontal attack after another. The only way we're going to get the Bellerophon Arm back is by building a fleet that can absorb whatever losses it takes to break through by sheer weight of numbers and material. Oh, I don't doubt that we can do it, given the combined industrial capacity of the Rim and the PSUN and the Terran Republic—and there can be no more nonsense about trying to avoid accepting their help! And these aliens have only the resources they brought with them plus those of the Bellerophon Arm. But it's going to involve the kind of casualties not even an Orion likes to think about."
"There is another type of low-grade politician," she said, all trace of levity gone, "who stays in office by telling people what they want to hear: that all problems have easy, painless solutions, and that only a meany would advocate any other kind."
"That kind of infantile self-deception can have no effect except to make a long, bloody war even longer and bloodier."
They turned together in silence and walked away, leaving the Cenotaph to its ghosts.
Mags raised her glass to the tank as the broadcast clicked off. The TRN's Veterans' Day and Independence Day weren't anywhere near the RFN's Memorial Day but the information coming back through Arc News's embedded journalists made that ceremony imperative to watch for anyone in the forces no matter what flavor of government you saluted. It was clear to anyone with two brain cells to rub together that it was humans and allies against a new alien threat.
"Here's to them, then," Sam said further down the table. Sam Hollinger was one of Mags's friends Li Han thought was a bad influence. He was a med-tech in the Ivy Leagues Research Facilities on Sqwonk and a very attractive man. Unfortunately Mags wasn't in the mood to notice that fact, ever since she had booted George and his lover out. Her mother wasn't always wrong about bad friends.
She'd met George at an unpopular beach resort that she'd picked for her leave just because of its unpopularity—that meant no crowds. George had been there because of the parasailing. It had worked out between them quite well, or so she thought, aside from what she later found out was his almost pathological search for perfection (in everyone but himself) until she'd come home unexpectedly and found George and another "friend" in the shower.
She put George and Lisa firmly out of her mind and nodded to Sam. I refuse to spoil my evening by thinking about negative people. The way things are going, no one is going to have a free evening in a long time to come. Mother would have still been on the ship, leave or no leave.
Her exec had chased her downside to the City of Gold for a concert, held in conjunction with the Beaufort ceremonies, and Sam and his friends had invited her for a beer afterward. Phillip and Amity, the other two who'd come along after the concert, had left to claim one of the zero-grav pool tables—really a pool sphere, she thought—right after the last note of the trumpet, skipping all the closing commentary. The Slippery Men was a bar where both certain divisions of Research and the Navy drank, and the owners had wisely not followed the latest open-concept fad in design. Mags found modern design a mistake on a planet as marginal as Sqwonk. She always had the personal temperature controls cranked high in her uniform when she went out here, but constantly still felt cold.
Thankfully, the bar stuck to its roots, with tables and booths partly privacy-screened, the old shimmering fields that truly did nothing to block out sight but made everything look vaguely underwater, and wooden floors and bar. The only shiny surfaces were the taps and the antique mirror behind the bar. It was a warm place where you could sit with friends and pretend for a while that there wasn't a bloody war barreling down on them. The Beaufort broadcast had altered that atmosphere only for a time and now the somber silence had softened to the buzz of conversation again.
"So, how are things going?" Sam grinned as he jerked a thumb vaguely skyward. He wasn't truly pushing for information, since he knew that she wouldn't talk about it anyway.
They had been taking the devastators through their testing and shakedown cruise in Mothball, a system with little traffic and no habitable planets only one warp point off Snark, the sun circled by Sqwonk. It made sense to hide classified equipment in a system that had an amazing assortment of military junk stashed in it and no one would think twice about them coming or going.
"What aside from everyone working their asses off, as usual?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Nothing in particular."
"Uh-huh. And you always wear that canary-fed-cat look." He put his beer down on the table and held up both hands at her look. "No, no. Before you ask, it's not obvious. No, you inscrutable Oriental types are always impassive." He pulled at his own poker-straight black hair, grinning. "It's just me pulling your chain."
She relaxed inside, surprised to find that she'd tensed up. She'd never let anything slip about any kind of classified project. "Sam, we're just going to knock the pants off my mother in the next war games, that's all."
"Ah." He nodded, understanding dawning. Letting people figure out "secrets" on their own was a typical way of misdirecting attention. It wasn't a classified mission at all, just "war games"—which happened to be the code name for Mags's brand-new DTs; something that she obviously wasn't going to spill, even if she had anyone to pillow-talk with.
She anticipated him. "And yes, I expect it will all go by the wayside once the politicos get it together." Because we'll be deployed.
"There will be other war games, I'm sure." He smiled at her and she looked away from him. It would be too easy to get involved with Sam.
"And how about you?" she countered.
He waved a dismissive hand. "Same old, same old. How about we finish this drink and go cheer them on?" He tilted his head over to the games section. It was a gift of his, to always ease the pressure on her, and made it just so much easier to be around him. Just enough interest to let me know that he's not lost interest, and putting me off what he's doing, too. She smiled and drained her stout.
"Sounds like fun. And I'll take you on in a game of virtual archery later!"
"Loser buys a round."
As they headed over to the gaming section an irrelevant thought drifted through her mind. Sam is one of the friends I have that Mother does like, though she pretends not to. She would never have mentioned me bringing him to the Family New Year, if she didn't.
The new ships had performed beautifully. Slower than she'd like but the massive weight of fire-power just might be enough to stand against these aliens.
Li Han slid the old fashioned flimsy into the even more archaic envelope. Funny how we cling to ancient rituals for these kinds of things. The envelope went into the inside pocket of her uniform jacket. It made no sense to deliver these particular orders by courier and even though Magda was more than six decades into her life, Han still remembered the anguish she had felt when she thought she'd never have children. It made them much more precious and still inclined to such gestures.
She took the envelope out again and—she suppressed the twinge at doing something so unregulation—tucked a paper crane in with them. It wouldn't hurt. And perhaps it would help in some indefinable way.
Magda had brought the devastators home after—as Robert would have said—"testing the shit out of them" and their meeting was scheduled down on Beaufort.
She resumed tabbing up her uniform and straightened her collar, smoothed one hand over her already immaculate hair. There. Ready to face the hostile world, just as her driver commed up from the garage.
This was a meeting that would carry a mix of pride and pain, as always. For the first time since the revolution, the Fringe, the Rim, and the Core Worlds would be working in concert along with all alien allies. The actual declarations of alliance and mutual defense had been debated with record speed and the so-called MATT, or Mutual Alliance Treaty Talks, had merely been a media circus for everyone to shake hands and various upper manipulators and sign archaic flimsies on camera.
Han had been happy enough not to be in the spot light for that. Thankfully President Gibbons and President Emeritus Illyushina had taken care of the political end of things. She hadn't even had to beg off pleading business because she had actually been too busy and they knew it. At least the political arm of the TRN hadn't forgotten why the Revolution had happened in the first place. They hadn't had time to become corrupt or venal yet.
Li Han leaned back against the cushions, not out of indulgence but out of necessity. Her "car" and driver were really more like a short-hop space-to-air craft, what most people who lived on the moon used to commute to the planet, and there was always a bit of a strain for those in their second hundred when the pilot began compensating for the planetary gravity they were settling into.
She momentarily let her eyes and spirit rest on the images of the planet unfolding below, the gem tones of green and blue shot through with reds and dusty swirls of tan in the clear air between heavy cloud. That storm was a distant white sea beginning to form up slowly in the southern hemisphere, the trailing puffs of cloud scurrying to join the rest of the white herd with sun glancing off the rounded wooliness. She knew the illusion of lightness, the innocence of the upper surface, as they descended, her driver having expressed appreciation earlier that they weren't heading into that mess.
The curve of the planet was now falling away in a distance that changed as they descended into the atmosphere and her introspective mood held all the way into her daughter's offices.
She nodded at the girl—she's sixty-four, hardly a girl—who had the wrinkle between her eyes that she always developed when she was deeply integrated into her network, dealing with the last of the long-distance connections. Even as people figured out how to effectively shorten distances, the sheer immensity of distance between stars still slowed communications to a crawl. No one had come up with anything like the ancient stories of quantum communicators, and all of the allies were just now responding to the TRN's announcement of the production of the new DTs that Magda had been testing in Mothball.
Li Han sat down at her daughter's wave and opened her case. If I were a betting person I would lay money on what those responses are. She looked up as the door opened again and blinked at the old man who entered and took a seat next to her.
Kevin Sanders had an ageless face, it seemed, but then he'd always worn his age lightly, especially since no one knew how old he really was. All anyone knew at this point was that he was over two hundred. He smiled his jaunty smile at her and gave the little wave that was somewhere between a wave of greeting and a salute. He'd retired years ago, what was he—she cut off her thought.
Of course. He saw it coming so could put himself in the place where he might do some good. As always, ahead of the curve rather than behind it as everyone military was –perforce—forced to be.
She nodded back, amiably. It was nice to know that in this war, that was shaping up to be as deadly as the Bug War, they had this man's shrewdness on their side. She ostensibly turned back to her case, her attention still on Sanders, who sat quietly, managing to give the impression of motion even as he sat absolutely still. She thought suddenly of one of her grandfather's odd sayings: "If you stand, just stand. If you sit, just sit. Above all, don't wobble." His hands were the only part of him that showed his tremendous age, translucent skin over bulgy wiggles of blue veins, though they were neither liver-spotted nor tremulous.
He'd not be wearing any recording devices or wires, however much von Rathenau, the current head of the PSU's Joint Intelligence Agency, would want him to; he'd just be glad that the old master was still willing to take an active—though technically outside all of the current chains of command—role in things. Sanders wouldn't need anything of the kind.
Li Magda blinked as she disengaged from her system and nodded at the two sitting in her office. "Thank you both for coming. Claw of the Khan Jiilhaarahk'ostakjo has been delayed and will be attending, voice only, from his vehicle."
Li Han nodded and added her murmur of acknowledgement to Sanders and heard the low buzz that was the speaker from the Orion's car that signaled an open line to her. She was still very aware that most people couldn't hear that particular sound and was guiltily aware of how proud she was of her excellent hearing.
"I would like to thank the First Space Lord for arranging to come to my office, rather than having us all come up to hers." Han nodded quietly. Very proper to acknowledge that. "First Space Lord?" She gestured to her mother.
"Thank you." She did not get up. For such a small meeting, as important as it was, it would have seemed pompous, though she did turn slightly more toward Sanders who smiled. "I need to inform you that we have a new class of ship that we will be throwing into this war." She called up the press release and squirted it to Magda's desk so they—in the office—could see the image. "I will be forwarding all appropriate information to all allies."
"Praise to you, First Space Lord. I expect it." The voice was flattened through the translator.
"This is our devastator class. It is a ship that is more than fifty percent larger than the next smallest hull that we have, with a corresponding increase in firepower."
Kevin Sanders leaned forward, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his face intent. "It must be slower than an SMT, surely."
Han nodded, as much to her daughter as in acknowledgment of his question, and Magda took up the thread. "Yes, but it more than makes up for it. The other problem is also related to their size. They cannot traverse approximately twenty percent of warp points available." The quirk of an eyebrow was the only acknowledgement of her questions about her mother's decision. "But when it comes to hitting, whatever these babies wallop, stays down."
There was a suppressed snort from the speaker, perhaps the Orion was somewhat amused by the turn of phrase or how it was translated, but that didn't stop the question. "Is this a feasible idea? Will these zegets be worth building in numbers?" A rather appropriate name for the ships, Li Han thought.
"Yes." She didn't elaborate. "We have already begun an intensive construction of this new class." The silence over audio was eloquent, and Sanders didn't react at all. Li Han wondered for a moment if someone had leaked something . . . or more likely the old fox had discovered it for himself. That would account for his lack of reaction.
"Waldeck is holding Astria and we, obviously, will be deploying as fast as possible to support him and then, when we have sufficient strength, will carry the war back to Bellerophon. This is Waldeck's advice, of course, and we concur." They were all quiet for a moment thinking of what this actually meant in terms of casualties.
Oddly, it was the Orion who spoke up. "This will not be easy, but it will certainly be honorable."
"Indeed." Sanders said quietly. " 'When cubs must take up their sire's claws.' " It was a quote from Khan Hiranow'zarthan, an important historical figure for the Tabbies, and they'd certainly appreciate it. The answering growl from Jiilhaarahk, the translator didn't even attempt. Li Han refrained from trading a look with her daughter, a what-was-that-all-about look.
"I should inform the allies," Sanders continued, "that I've been trying to analyze how the Tangri will jump, given that they like to fish in everyone else's pond. It would suit them to see us weakened by a long war. It is unlikely, in my opinion, that they will ally with these new aliens, since they by nature dislike to ally with anyone."
Li Magda chuckled. "They'd just prefer to sink their pointy little teeth into them."
"Right." He smiled at both of them. "Just to let you know that we haven't forgotten them."
Li Han allowed herself a sigh. "Our own personal thorn in our sides." She shrugged. "We'll watch out. As we always do."
"Right."
Magda spoke up. "Gentlemen—" trusting the machine to render it correctly in the Tongue of Tongues—"Sir." She nodded at Li Han. "If I could redirect you from my office to the docks I will be able to actually show you more of the new DT."
Kevin cast a glance between the two women and got smoothly to his feet. "Certainly. Jiilhaarahk, shall I meet you there?"
An untranslated growl again, then, "Yes, Sanders."
Magda nodded to him. "Mr. Sanders."
"Kevin, please."
"Certainly, Kevin. And please, call me Magda." He smiled and Han sighed inwardly at the informality. "We will be out shortly."
He didn't say anything but gave that multi-purpose wave of his and let himself out. When the door had closed behind him, and Li Han heard the carrier wave of the audio shut down, she held up her hand to forestall Magda's question.
"There is a reason we are building so many DTs, daughter." She pulled a sheaf of hard-copy out of her case and handed it to Magda. "This is something that will explain. Something the scientists are calling 'The Kasugawa Effect.' This is, of course, most secret."
Magda took it from her, but didn't take her eyes off her mother. "Of course I'll read it, but can you sum it up for me?"
"Yes. In the most simple of terms . . ." She paused a moment to collect her thought. "Two generators on two ships open a warp connection between them."
Magda stared at her, speechless for a long moment. "A portable warp point?"
Han nodded. "Of course the one generator has to be carried to the actual destination, but it can certainly be made to accommodate our DTs."
Magda whistled through her teeth, looking down at the copy in her hands. "Burn-before-reading secret then."
"I would hope my daughter would not be so foolish." Li Han pulled out the envelope that had been riding inside the uniform all afternoon. "Your orders, as well, daughter." And as Magda took them, said, "You are our task force commander to Astria." For a microsecond pride and fear together glimmered in Han's expression, the knowledge of every mother whose warrior child is entering a combat zone, before smoothing away to her usual coolness, but Li Magda was always more impulsive. She leaned forward to hug her mother, papers and all, before stepping back to snap an impressive salute.
Li Han stiffened for a second before accepting the hug and returning it and her answering salute was equally precise.
She cleared her throat but Magda interrupted her. "Come on, Ma. Let's show these guys our new toy." She swept her unburdened hand toward the door.
"Ma, indeed." But Li Han smiled slightly as she preceded her daughter out the door. Your father would have been proud to see you now, daughter. He always was proud of you. But she did not say it.
Li Magda paused to lock their secrets away before following. Finally.