Monitor gulped asteroids and birthed warships as SystemLord mustered his forces. He vivified and placed a pure Meme aboard each newborn vessel, warrior-bred mitoses cloned from his own memory cells, possessing battle skills and little else. Adolescent in outlook, many years would pass before any of them matured enough to be a threat to his dominance – by which time, one way or another, most of them would be dead.
Again SystemLord speculated on the foolishness of the Humans, though as a wise and canny warrior he refused to underestimate them.
On one pseudopod, it seemed they had telegraphed their intentions with the probe.
On the other, he considered the possibility that there was no attacking force: that the probe was merely a lone information-gathering device directed at this system. Perhaps the enemy had sent tiny drones to many systems. Perhaps a Human fleet waited in interstellar space for further information, and would choose a different target when it saw how prepared his system was.
Such would be a worthy enemy strategy. It would be clever and efficient, forcing the Empire to expend vast amounts of materiel to prepare to hold many systems while the enemy attacked only one. This observation highlighted a principle that even the animalistic Humans could comprehend: in warfare, the attacker had the advantage of choosing time and place and circumstance, while the defender must wait, ever vigilant. This was doubly true in space combat, where speed was life, where unmoving things died.
That was why the Empire made it a policy of attacking, overwhelming and absorbing any threat, whatever the cost. Better a wounded victor, than defeated and dead.
The old Meme longed to take Monitor to assault the Human homeworld, but that would break with established doctrine. SystemLord believed that if they had immediately sent all Monitors and joined with all available roving Destroyers, the threat would have been ended already.
Perhaps it had: the latest assault on the enemy homeworld had taken place several stellar orbits ago, but of course he had to wait much longer to find out.
But tradition also said every Meme system would have its Monitor, to guard and fortify its planetary components, the wealth of the Empire – and keep the Underlings in line. Taboo and doctrine, he mused. I shall be the one to break taboo and create new and glorious doctrine.
Monitor had shrunk by a quarter of its own weight, shedding billions of tons as it first gestated dozens of frigates and cruisers rather than the usual millions of hypervelocity missiles. This strategy ran counter to standard doctrine, which was founded on the belief that a single large ship would always defeat an equal mass of smaller ships.
However, SystemLord had studied long on the old memories of Species 447 and the new ones of Human Species 666, and had made, for a Meme, an extraordinary intuitive leap.
He had realized that inorganic constructs, what Humans called machines, changed the usual equations. Where one living predator would easily dominate two of half its size, it was often true that two smaller machines could destroy one larger one.
Only Blends – Underlings and Purelings – built such machines. Even the dead Species 447, those called Ryss, had built ever-larger and more powerful warships, for a time besting the Empire in head-to-head combat. He remembered their Colossus-class vessels and shuddered at how each one had killed dozens of Destroyers before being brought down.
These Humans were no Ryss. They were more like Underlings, who, having given up their Meme form to use solid bodies with fixed structure and members, needed such tools to overcome their disabilities. But denied permission to join the attack, and with nothing to do for decades but pore over the records of recent assaults on the aliens, SystemLord realized that in some circumstances the Human strategy was superior, if not the Humans themselves.
A Human would say SystemLord thought to fight fire with fire.
He set the many smaller ships to grazing on interplanetary detritus, instructing their commanders to make themselves fat with raw materials, fuel and weapons.
Ordinary Meme doctrine was that of efficiency – living ships that could fire, fight and run away to heal and return again.
Contrarily, the Humans with their machines seemed to commit total effort to each battle, expending munitions at many times the rate Meme would in hopes of swamping their enemies’ ships with overwhelming numbers and varying attacks. In this case, where the aliens could not resupply, SystemLord was willing to pick and choose from traditional and enemy doctrines in hopes of synthesizing something new.
Accordingly, the Meme commander burned the resources of his star system with profligate rapidity as he thought, better to be prepared than to be made a fool – especially a dead fool.
***
Absen finally felt like an admiral. Whereas before he commanded one composite ship, now he had charge of a fleet in free flight. Computers and links would help, but the more complex the weapons, the more that could go wrong. A lot would come down to his captains and crews.
Eight assault carriers remained to be launched. Each AC held many people for its size: a Marine battalion of a thousand or so troops, plus an aerospace fighter wing of four hundred fifty and a ship’s crew of about a hundred, all in a ship with minimal armor and defensive systems. Almost half of my people are on those eight ships, he thought, and will likely take the largest number of casualties; but then, the assault forces always do.
Whereas the rest of the ships were there to control the high ground of space, these eight were there to take and hold things and places. Right now their objectives were rather murky. Eight Marine battalions couldn’t hold a planet in the face of determined resistance, but the Hippos’ world had orbital facilities, and a moon half the size of Earth’s. While Absen doubted he would ever again pull off anything as dramatic as ship-to-ship boarding, he was sure the ACs would get a workout somewhere, if only because he believed in using every tool to win.
Because ultimately, when this battle was over, they had to put down boots and roots, build something permanent, and prepare for the inevitable counterattack.
Absen toyed with a proscribed idea, to just strike and move on if the enemy proved too tough. Better to be the Flying Dutchmen of space than the last hurrah of a dead race.
If only we knew what had happened at home.
He stared at the holotank that displayed the Gliese 370 system. It showed their approach path as a straight shot in to Afrana near the stellar ecliptic, clear except for asteroids and comets. Those would be dealt with before the task force got there, by long-range railgun fire at high-c velocities. Planets B through F were well out of the way, by design, simplifying his tactical problem.
The bridge crew spoke in clipped tones around him, passing orders and information. He exchanged glances with Timmons, his imperturbable Chief of the Boat; it was an archaic position that the man maintained by refusing to go anywhere but Absen’s side. Though the COB looked younger and fitter than he used to, he still had an air of gravitas that his ever-present coffee mug of lifer-juice did nothing to dispel. Timmons nodded back and touched a control on his console.
Klaxons whooped throughout the ship, calling all hands to General Quarters. Tension aboard spiked as men and women scrambled to pull on suits and helmets, and then jogged along the decks through the wide passageways. Their gear grew suddenly less heavy as the gravplating reset to one-half G, the better to perform their duties. Once damage control parties had reported ready, the COB touched another key and the no-notice drill ended.
“Two minutes seventeen seconds,” he announced, checking an old-fashioned digital stopwatch. “Not bad.”
“Let’s get it under two minutes, COB,” Absen replied.
“Aye aye, sir.” He picked up his mug and took a sip. “I’ll give them five minutes to get halfway undressed and then call one again.”
“You’re a bad man, COB,” Absen grinned.
“Far worse than you know, sir,” he chuckled. Five minutes passed, then ten, while the chief sipped and played with his board.
Crafty old bastard knew he’d be overheard and someone would pass on the scuttlebutt through their link, Absen thought. Now they’re all sweating in their suits, ready to go and wondering what’s going on.
Ninety-five minutes later he watched as Timmons called another drill. Absen laughed to himself. That’ll teach them to try to outfox the fox.
Two hours later the Admiral gave up his watch to a duty officer, content to crawl into his bunk and catch up on some sleep. He knew that his role now was to make the big decisions when the time came. Tomorrow he would spend the day reviewing the finalized intelligence and OPLANs before he gave the order to start shooting for real.
***
Absen awoke seven hours later with that feeling again. Irritation flared in his breast, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to give the man the satisfaction of seeing it. Without opening his eyes he cleared his throat and said, “Hello, Spooky.”
“Greetings, Admiral. I trust all is well with your world?” The covert operative sat comfortably in the armchair in the corner farthest from the comm-panel light by Absen’s bunk, and thus a mere outline in the deep darkness.
“You know, this sneaking in was a lot more impressive before you adopted cover as a Steward and got the codes for the door. Now it’s just disrespectful.” Absen sat up, flipping on the overhead light, stripping the Vietnamese highlander of his shadows, and nearly blinding himself on the blued and silver-buttoned Steward garb.
Spooky blinked, shrugged. “Would it impress you more if I told you I don’t have the current codes, and that Tobias is standing outside gnashing his teeth wondering how I got by him – again?”
Absen waved a hand in surrender. “Yes, I suppose it would. All right, you’ve had your fun. What do you want this time?”
“I want to make a suggestion.”
“What would that be?”
Spooky leaned forward to put his palms on his knees. “Don’t strike the planet too hard.”
Absen nodded. “Well, not so hard we destroy the ecosystem. We do need to colonize. Why?”
“Because the best way to destroy an enemy is make him your friend.”
“And you think the Hippos will be our friends?”
Spooky nodded slowly. “It seems possible. Are they not slaves to the Meme?”
“Look, Nguyen, I’ve read a hundred reports on this issue and nobody agrees. What are they? Meme with Hippo bodies? Hippos cloaked in Meme biology? Slaves to their empire? We don’t know their exact relationship.”
“I simply advise keeping our options open. They can’t be allies if they are bombed back to the Stone Age.”
Absen sighed. “They can’t hurt us, either…but point taken. I’ll think about it.”
“What else are you thinking about?”
“Meaning?” Absen’s voice sharpened. “I’m not required to give you reports.”
Spooky smiled faintly. “Tell me I’m wrong then.”
“About what?”
“You’re wondering if we should strike with our velocity intact, going so fast they can’t hurt us, then come back after we’re certain we can take them.”
“You know me well, but so what? I’m the commander and I’ll make the decisions.”
Spooky spread his hands, placating. “So you are. But you still have your orders.”
Absen growled, “Now you’re sounding like some goddamned political officer. What’s your secret agenda? You must have come to do more than play games and give me unneeded strategic advice.”
“True enough.” Spooky folded his hands across his flat belly and gazed down at his interlaced digits. “As a courtesy I thought I’d let you know I’m going to assemble a covert action team.”
“For?”
“That’s still classified.” He rubbed the tips of his thumbs together.
“Classified from the task force commander this far from home? Bullshit.”
“Technically not bullshit, and I’m going to need the team.”
“For what?” Absen asked again.
“For whatever the team is for.”
Absen shook his head. “I think if you have a hammer, everything looks like a nail.”
Spooky laughed dryly. “You think because I am a covert operative, I’m manufacturing a covert operation?”
“Sounds like it to me.”
“Wouldn’t you like to be ready if an opportunity presents itself? Use every tool, I’ve heard you say.”
“Yes, and we’re all just tools to you black ops types. You’re saying you haven’t already got a team? If you could get assigned to this task force without my knowledge, why didn’t you bring some more of your spooks?”
Spooky shrugged, but did not answer, looking slightly uncomfortable for the first time.
“Ah…” Absen smiled. “You weren’t assigned, were you? You’re here without authorization.” He sat back to fold his arms on his chest with rare delight. “And now you need my help.”
“Without specific authorization, perhaps. Long ago I obtained general authorization to do anything Earth’s Council deems necessary.”
“And who’s going to back you up when I say no? Not like you can call back and complain.”
“I hope you don’t deny this. I do need your help.” Spooky quirked an eyebrow. “And I think you could use mine.”
Absen grunted noncommittally. “All right, let’s say the answer is yes. How many and who? I get the feeling you don’t just want a squad of jarheads to back you up.”
“You are correct, sir. And I have a feeling I will need special operators, not line troops, but it doesn’t need to be right away.”
“Uh oh.” Absen stood up and grabbed a towel. “Since we’re swapping feelings, I have a feeling I’m not going to like the roster. So rather than hash this out right now, I’m going to take a shower and you’re going to leave me your selections so I can think about it. In the meantime, get lost.”
“Fair enough.” Spooky stood up and bowed mockingly. “The list is short, and it’s under your pillow.” With that parting shot he walked out of the Admiral’s capacious quarters.
***
The Admiral’s private shower was a good place to think. The more he mulled over Spooky’s words, the more they made sense to him. Maybe there aren’t enough people here willing to speak truth to power. That means Nguyen is all the more valuable for that trait. Who else can contradict me? Brigadier Stallers? It’s a slippery slope to dictatorship.
One short walk later Absen took his seat in his command conference room, overflowing with targeters, planners and analysts. They ticked through dozens of slides detailing the specifics of the fleet’s initial strikes, which would take out the Meme fixed defenses before they could react.
His eyes began to roll back after the first hour no matter how he tried to hurry the process. They snapped open as the next presentation showed the hot, blue-green, Earthlike world of Afrana, where they hoped to build a human colony.
By the third slide he’d heard enough. “So, Major Dunlap,” Absen asked the targeting officer levelly, “you appear to have planned a genocide.”
The man shifted uncomfortably next to the big screen. “Estimates are for no more than ninety-four percent casualties on the Hippo planet, sir.”
“Ah.” Absen steepled his fingers. “And if this was a human enemy, would you consider that number within the bounds of morality?” The room had fallen silent as the staff watched the interplay.
“Sir?” Wisely, the man waited rather than argue – after all, he was merely the spokesman for a planning team.
Absen waved his own rhetorical question aside. “What will be the impact on the ecosystem of this proposed strike? I will eventually have to put a million colonists somewhere. I think they deserve a decent place to live.”
More confidently Dunlap responded, “The planet is already warm for human habitation. The actions will throw up enough debris to cool the planet and eventually increase the habitable zone.”
“Eventually when?”
“Ah…twenty to thirty years.”
Absen tapped his fingertips together. “Look, Dunlap, I am sure your plan is a perfect military solution, but there is a bigger picture here. Aside from the moral problem of wiping out enemy civilians, or non-blended Hippos that pose us no threat, aside from the wisdom of damaging the planet during the most critical colonization period, has anyone thought to ask about how we are going to live with these Hippos later?”
“But sir,” broke in Brigadier Stallers, “the Blends are just Meme in different form, and they control the rest of the Hippos. They are the enemy. We can’t exactly figure out who is who in the middle of combat.”
“So are we going to hunt them down and kill all of them, Blends and natural Hippos?” Absen responded. “A wise man recently reminded me the best way to destroy an enemy is to make him your friend. Can’t do that by indiscriminate slaughter.”
Stallers answered, “We also can’t run around testing them one by one. I would rather just kill them all and let God sort them out, sir.” As commander of the Marines, Stallers had enough rank to play devil’s advocate, and Absen was glad of it. If he could be bullied, he should be fired.
“Yes, that’s the safest thing to do in the short term.” Absen looked up at the ceiling and put his arms behind his head, a cover for glancing around to try to gauge his staff’s reactions.
“It’s what will save lives, Admiral,” Stallers went on. “An enemy is an enemy. So is the population he hides in.”
Sitting up again, Absen said, “Brigadier, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the history of human warfare it’s the value of winning hearts and minds, and of holding out a hand to a defeated foe.”
Stallers leaned forward, his hawk-like face intense. “We have to defeat them first, sir. What if they have weapons or ships that survive a weak strike, then are used against us? We have only the one chance to surprise them with this high-c railgun sweep. After that, they will take precautions.”
“I appreciate your concerns, Brigadier.” Absen could see the staff around him was starting to sway to Stallers viewpoint, and he felt his own words sound hollow, so he strengthened his voice and rapped his knuckles on the table for emphasis. “Let me be clear: I want plans that demolish and destroy all enemy military capability, even associated industrial capability. I want them smashed flat, but I will not countenance genocide.”
Stallers stared at Absen for a moment before nodding in acquiescence. The man was far too much of a professional to mutiny, the admiral believed – but stranger things had happened in commands far from home. People were not machines, and would only charge into battle if they believed in what they were doing.
Absen nodded back, then turned to the intelligence briefer. “Dunlap, get your team working on something less extreme, something that kills fewer civilian Hippos. Something that allows us to immediately start colonization near the poles where it’s cool enough for humans. And Campbell,” he turned to his administrative aide, “draft a memo explaining my policy on Meme, Blends and native Hippos.”
“Yes, sir. Ah…what’s the difference?”
“I’ll tell you when I’m sure myself.” The admiral rubbed his eyes and stood up to stretch. “Take five and get on with the next presentation.”