| |
Commander One dismissed concerns about the flare of the Destroyer’s great fusion engines decelerating his craft from its increased speed. First, space was vast, and it was unlikely the Humans would even notice. He had given orders to point the drive off center and slowly rotate around the axis of travel, deflecting the direct particulate emissions well away from the enemy star system.
Second, even if they did detect the drive, they would probably mistake it for a much smaller ship. How could they possibly know what they faced? Of course, they had overcome a mere Survey craft, and might assume they would be the target of a force of one, perhaps two orders of magnitude greater.
However, the Destroyer’s capabilities reached up to two orders of magnitude beyond that – five to ten thousand times as effective as the scout ship they had defeated with such difficulty. There seemed little to worry about.
Precisely because there was so little to worry about, Commander One, with the concurrence of his trium, had decided to employ a novel strategy. Doing so would give the crew something to do, decreasing boredom, and might contribute to his standing among other Destroyer Commanders, perhaps earning him an early promotion to Fleet Commander or even SystemLord.
“We have come to relative rest near the largest concentration of ingestible material that is close to the target system, but still outside it,” External Communicator One said from his tank. This provided a feeding ground of cometary bodies in complete safety. The electromagnetic emanations of the fusion drive would delay any response, and it seemed inconceivable that the Humans could send a force sufficient to threaten them out this far.
No, the fight, when it came, would undoubtedly take place around the Human home world. Lower species always fought hard for the planets of their origins. That was why they were called “lower orders.” Meme had no need of such sentimentality.
Every station in the control room was full now. Commander One wanted no one to claim later that they were not involved in the unusual strategy. His senior staff had their opportunities to raise objections, but except for a few carefully worded questions, they had not.
Commander One had a good, compliant crew. He was proud of himself, and them. In a race where rebellion always simmered beneath the surface, this was an accomplishment.
“Begin maximum ingestion processes preparatory to Destroyer mitosis,” he intoned. This statement was analogous to a human captain giving the order to send away half his crew aboard an empty vessel. More precisely, it instructed them to begin the arduous and difficult process of dividing the Destroyer into two, like an amoeba.
Within half a cycle, more or less, Destroyer Commander One would effectively become Fleet Commander One. He even thought about repeating the process, gorging the resulting duo of ships and splitting once more, but decided against it. Dividing once smacked of hubris; dividing twice would invite even more scrutiny, and if the tiniest thing went wrong, if casualties were higher than average, he might be pilloried and excoriated rather than commended. It would also leave them with three quarters of each crew brand new clones, inviting further inefficiencies.
Two Destroyers will be enough, he thought, and if by some insane chance the Humans killed one, he would make sure it was not the one he commanded.
***
Recycler One spoke to his trium in the privacy of the great ship’s digestive tract. “My plan has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. The Commanders have let it be known that this Destroyer shall divide, becoming two.”
“Our plan,” Two corrected.
“Yes, we helped,” Three chimed in.
“Of course,” said One indulgently.
“But that was not the plan,” Three went on in his usual whining grumbling taste.
“The plan was subtle, with many permutations!” One insisted. “The goal was to create a disruption that would provide opportunity, and that has occurred.”
Two soothed, “Yes, One, what Three means is he is very happy with the intersection of positive chance and the strategy you convinced us to employ. Right, Three?”
“Right,” Three agreed, suddenly remembering that his fortunes rested with his fellows, and if he failed in some way, they might discard him from the trium.
“Realize, comrades, that with two Destroyers, we will automatically be promoted to the middle of the hierarchy, probably in the new ship. Fresh cloned mitoses will fill the places beneath us, so instead of eighty-second of eighty-two, we can expect to land in the forties, or even thirties!”
“And,” interjected Two, “probably under a brand-new Commander who may bear us less animosity.”
Three could not help himself. “If there is hard fighting to be done, the new Destroyer will take the lead and the most casualties.”
“All the more reason to rejoice,” One enthused. “If we survive, we will be promoted into the casualties’ places and also gain a greater share of the glory and positive performance reports, so let us cease to babble about the consequences and concentrate on the planning and execution. We must be ready with plans and contingencies to forward our advancement.”
“Since when did you become so ambitious?” Three asked curiously.
“Since I had to share a tiny escape probe with you two,” One retorted. “I find I am eager to gain the perquisites of adequate pod-room, more control of my destiny, and when we inevitably conquer...”
“You wish to blend with a Human.”
One communicated the equivalent of an evil grin. “Perhaps I will. If I do, I will enslave them, lord it over them, and punish them for the trouble they caused us. Or, if denied, I will bide my time and rise in the hierarchy of this new Destroyer.”
“And we are with you, One,” Two said, flicking a warning molecule at Three. Grandiose dreams, Two thought, but he is a beast that might be ridden until it must be abandoned.
***
Rear Fusor One, formerly Survey Commander One and then Recycler One, examined his trium’s new control room with satisfaction. “It is as I said. We have risen to forty-first of eighty-one, and have an important function to perform.”
“Front Fusors would have been better,” Three grumbled. “We won’t get much action.”
“Nor much risk, because statistically the front of the ship sustains four fifths of the potential damage in any battle,” Two reminded.
“Oh. That’s true.” Three brightened a bit.
“More importantly, we now have fresh new subordinates and full access to all sensor feeds.” From his comfortable new container tank, One extended a large eyeball to take a position inside a hemispherical screen and shoved a pseudopod into a communicator port. “This will provide us with maximum information and maximum opportunity.”
“Opportunity?” Two asked.
“One never knows what might come up in the heat of battle,” One opined.
As the new Destroyer grew from its weak half-state, the trium trained with its rearward-facing fusors according to schedule, and more; One insisted on maximum effort, as weapons control was not something with which they possessed the greatest experience. He was determined that they perform with maximum effectiveness, mainly to ensure the potential to become casualties remained as low as possible.
Despite Three’s complaint, this position suited One. Their control chamber was well inside the Destroyer’s skin, at approximately the midpoint of its back hemisphere, so they were unlikely to become casualties. Their duties were mostly defensive and reactive, unless the unlikely event of close-in battle using the short-range fusors occurred.
One judged the situation nearly ideal.
