Sherman watched the hulk of the Montserrat as his soldiers were gathered in. He could not believe that the ship had not surrendered. Had he been in a similar situation, he would have immediately stood down. Someone had told the Met soldiers what was about to happen, and they were surrendering en masse, begging to be taken along on the Boomerang. He supposed he could find room for them. Guarding them would give Theory and the captains a logistics problem, but nothing they weren’t up to. Everyone alive could have been saved, but that wasn’t going to happen.
“Colonel, we are receiving a message from the Montserrat,” Theory said.
“Put it on.”
“Colonel Sherman, this is Captain Philately of the Montserrat. I have just killed Admiral San Filieu, but her convert portion is still alive and will not let us leave the ship. I don’t suppose there is anything you can do to get my ship’s personnel off?”
“Good God!” Sherman exclaimed, then he continued in a calmer voice. “I can’t stop the bomb now, Captain. The reaction has already begun. It is just a matter of time until it overcomes the effects of your isotropic coating.”
“I see.”
“Do you have any of the keys to your lockout codes?”
“No, sir. They belong to the Admiral. This is her flagship. Was.”
“Give me a moment, Captain,” said Sherman. He changed channels. “Theory, is there anything we can do for them?”
Theory was silent for a moment. Odd. He must be running through a million options in his mind, Sherman thought.
“I have only one suggestion, Colonel,” Theory finally answered.
“What is it, man?”
“We might be able to override the copying restrictions on their algorithmic portions and bring them all over through the grist as free converts,” Theory said. “I have some new hacking software provided to me by Gerardo Funk, the engineer from Titan.”
Sherman relayed the idea to Philately. It only took her a moment to reply.
“Are you sure? We have an immediate self-erasure clause coded into our convert portions. It is supposed to keep us from, well, deserting.”
“We don’t know,” Sherman said. “But it’s all I have to offer.”
There was a moment of silence, and then came Philately’s answer.
“We’re ready,” Philately said.
“Then come to me,” Sherman said, “and save what you can.”
The next twenty minutes were filled with such intense activity, that Theory had to remind Sherman that the Montserrat was about to blow. They had got in the soldiers and the POWs, and taken the convert copies of the Montserrat personnel into the Boomerang’s grist. It had worked.
And now the ship was away, twenty thousand klicks from the destruction that was building behind them. Sherman turned his ship around, but left enough momentum to aft so that they continued receding from the doomed Montserrat.
“Thirty seconds, Colonel,” said Theory. They waited and watched.
“Ten.”
He felt his scraggly beard, grown thicker now. Soon he might actually be presentable.
“Five, four, three, two, one—”
The Montserrat became a ball of fire, far, far brighter than the sun.
All was silent, of course.
The shock wave took out the observational grist, and Sherman’s perspective shifted outward, grist line after grist line. By the time the radiant energy reached the Boomerang, it was only a gentle breaker, rocking Sherman’s ship like a wave on a calm sea.
The jamming, Sherman thought. It is over!
“I must call Dahlia,” he said. “And tell her that I still live.”
“Well,” said a voice behind Sherman in the virtuality. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Sherman spun around, his pulse racing.
“Calm yourself, my boy. It’s just me,” said Tacitus. The old man held out his hand. “Congratulations.”
Sherman took a breath and got hold of himself. He reached out and took the old cloudship’s hand.
“He asked me not to announce him,” said Theory. “I’m sorry for the shock, Colonel.”
“Quite all right, Theory,” said Sherman. “You’ve been perfect for too long, anyway. Take a break and join us.”
“Sir?”
“Let us all sit down for a moment.”
Three chairs appeared. Sherman found the one with the straightest back and took it. He had always hated mushy chairs. Tacitus lit a cigar, offered one to Sherman, but Sherman declined. It was enough to rest, his hands on his lap. To Sherman’s surprise, Theory took one of the cigars.
“The merci broadcast of the battle,” said Tacitus, “was a master stroke.”
“What’s that?” said Sherman. For a moment, he couldn’t remember that he’d ordered it. “Oh, yes.”
“It very likely got you a government,” said Tacitus. “We were in session, debating a new metaplanetary constitution, the other cloudships and I. There was a bit of fear and trembling. I don’t suppose you’ve heard. Ganymede has fallen to Amés.”
“No,” said Sherman.
“But then we saw you fight. And we saw you win,” Tacitus continued. “After you got that bomb into place, we passed the damn constitution with a two-thirds majority. Welcome to the new Solarian Republic, General.”
“I’m a colonel, sir.”
“No,” said Tacitus, “you are not.”
“Well,” said Sherman, “So.”
Tacitus took a long puff on his cigar. He breathed out, and the smoke wreathed about him, obscuring his face for a moment. Then Sherman could see him.
“We are putting you in charge,” said the cloudship. “And I believe you’ve got a navy.”
“When,” said Sherman. “And how many?”
Tacitus laughed, and ashed his cigar. The detritus disappeared as it fell, and did not dirty the floor of the virtuality. In the virtuality, everything could be cleaner than life.
“Give me a few days—e-days—and I’ll have your answer,” Tacitus said. “In the meantime, I have a message for you from the Congress of Ships. A question, actually.”
“What is it?”
Another puff on the cigar. “What is it, we were wondering, that you might need from us, and what, exactly, were you planning to do?”
Sherman considered the old man. Was he five hundred? A thousand? The e-years did not matter; Tacitus’s eyes were still young.
I hope that I will once again have young eyes someday, thought Sherman.
“I wish you to give me your trust,” Sherman said. “And then let there be war between Amés and me.”