Sentience 1: Storm Clouds Gathering (32 page)

“Space Ops, launch Ready-1 and vector him on an intercept at max acceleration to the target. Also, get a tanker launched ASAP, and get it out to Rovers 1 and 2,” thundered Bainbridge.

“Space-Ops, aye.” Within seconds the standby
Lightning
shot down the launch bay and accelerated away at over 10,000c.

“Communications,” yelled Admiral Bishop, “have the task force change course to 006 by 048, speed 325.”

“Communications, aye, Admiral.”

The
Oriskany’s
long-range scanners and those of her consorts, the cruisers and destroyers kept the fighters advised of the course and speed of the bogey. The tanker launched and chased the three thirsty fighters at her best speed of ~3,000c. Just before the bogy disappeared from the
Oriskany’s
screens, Rover-1 and Ready-1 both picked up the fleeing vessel on their own onboard scanners. Now they had him on their screens, that bogey wasn’t going to get away. All three fighters slowed considerably to conserve fuel and wait for the tanker to catch up. This delay in the intercept naturally put Admiral Bishop into a bit of a froth. It seemed, getting caught up in the moment, he’d temporarily forgotten he wasn’t part of the Boundary Guard for a while.

Space warfare was almost always conducted in normal space, near planetary bodies being fought over. Space warfare between ships in hyperdrive was highly problematic, to say the least. Detection of faster-than-light objects by speed-of-light radiation emissions could be achieved if angular directions and relative positions and speeds allowed for it. In a direct stern-chase, the target disappears completely as it simply outruns the radiation being thrown towards it.

Interception of a target in tachyon space presents problems of epic proportions. Vectored approaches using triangulation methodology requiring multiple scan sources could be accomplished, as the distance to target decreases, time delay decreases and echo strength increases. But approach speeds must be slowed to reduce the closure rate in hopes the pursuers can get close enough to detect the fast-decaying Cherenkov radiation generated by the target’s hyperdrive. If accomplished successfully, the close relative distance can then allow for modulated active Cherenkov radiation communications between two vessels traveling in hyperdrive if they have a sufficiently slow closure rate.

This was the basis of the British Royal Fleet’s initial success at capturing a space fighter while in hyperdrive. By employing an active, modulated Cherenkov radiation beacon to guide the approaching fighter close enough to merge tachyon fields with the carrier, they managed to place both the carrier and the fighter into proximity close enough to enable them both to share the same “bubble” of normal space. This allowed the carrier to then capture the fighter by arrestor beams.

The fast decay rate of tachyon Cherenkov radiation provides only limited communications capabilities between vessels which must be at relatively close ranges, providing both vessels have such Cherenkov comm gear aboard, which most civilian vessels do not. Once within Cherenkov radiation detection range of a target, passive Cherenkov radiation detector guided missiles can be employed to disable the target, thus dropping it out of tachyon space, where it can be dealt with in a conventional manner.

Even with the sophisticated onboard systems aboard military vessels and fighters, actual success at closing within communications/weapons Cherenkov radiation detection range is somewhat under 60 percent. For military targets possessing electronic countermeasures equipment capable of monitoring distance and bearing from their pursuers by measured signal strength of the enemy’s active scans painting them, a properly timed evasive maneuver can often prevent Cherenkov radiation capture and frustrate interception.

This gave rise to the old spacer's adage, “You’re always safe in hyperspace,” and while not 100 percent accurate, it was certainly close enough to be practicable. While it made deep-space piracy unfeasible, it made stopping smugglers a bit of a nightmare for authorities charged with doing so. Thus it was, Rear Admiral Joseph Bishop’s mood was not lightened when the target made an artfully timed hard turn and escaped him… the bogey obviously had military grade ECM gear aboard.

Limit poker is a science, but no-limit is an art. In limit, you are shooting at a target.

In no-limit, the target comes alive and shoots back at you.
-- Jack Strauss

The Planetoid Discol, City of Waston

October, 3860

J.P. Aneke, Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer of Starquest Aerospace and Chairman of the Executive Board of the Consortium of Industrial Management had just flown into Waston on his ostentatious 20-passenger corporate spaceliner from Nork on business. Starquest Aerospace business this time, oddly enough. Usually when he came to Waston, it was on Consortium business to give instructions to one member of Congress or another.

Unlike all of his other trips here, this trip was a bit of a mystery to him. A week ago, an official communiqué from the embassy of the Imperial Germanic government in Nork City arrived at his office, requesting he make himself available to meet personally with a member of the imperial royal family at the Germanic embassy in Waston tomorrow morning. The message contained no specific details as to the reasons the German government was requesting his presence here — only that it was of paramount importance to Starquest Aerospace that he do so.

Aneke sipped a glass of $500-a-bottle wine as he relaxed in the limousine taking him to the Regis Hotel, where he always stayed in the Presidential Suite whenever he was in Waston.
Except this time,
Aneke thought grumpily. The Presidential Suite was already booked and the hotel management certainly couldn’t be expected to boot out the richest man on Sextus, just to convenience Aneke at the last minute. Aneke wondered what the infamous Wild Bill Custis was doing in Waston? Nork was the financial center of the country. Waston was for politicians. If Custis needed a politician, he’d best talk to Aneke, as he owned almost all of them — at least all the ones who mattered.

Aneke grunted at his own wit, and returned to pondering this mysterious invitation from the German government. He’d had some few business dealings with the Germans in the past, but never with any governmental agency and certainly never with any of their royal family. Cold, efficient, ruthless... that described every German he’d ever had the misfortune to encounter. Absolutely humorless, yet known for sausage, kraut and beer. Aneke appreciated the exquisite irony in that. It was no wonder they’d invaded France so often throughout history — there was no other way they could get a decent meal.

Whatever this damned meeting is about, it better include at least a billion-dollar contract for Starquest, if I’m going to be forced to endure the Queen’s Suite for a night,
thought Aneke. The stock market had taken a hit recently. A major player had sold short and evidently cleaned up when the market suddenly sagged. Aneke didn’t mind a person who manipulated the market like that… that was just how the game was played, but to do so without any prior warning to the big dogs just wasn’t kosher. Aneke’s agents still hadn’t identified the culprit.

Aneke made a mental note to have Senator Fitzwater meet him tomorrow afternoon, after he finished this
whatever the hell it is
with the Germans. If Fitzwater’s Armed Services Committee investigation could pry something…
anything
out of Admiral Kalis that was even the slightest bit incriminating to the president, he’d have that bastard Buchwald impeached, and strung up by his balls!

Aneke smiled to himself with that comforting thought. Refocusing, Aneke thought,
Maybe I’d better spend a little time at least trying to memorize this royal fop’s unpronounceable name
. It was beyond him how any civilization that shoved entire sentences into a single word had ever managed to develop past swords and catapults... and what they did to verbs was absolutely criminal.

Aneke pulled out the communiqué and winced as he again looked at the name of the man he would be meeting on the morrow
: Baron Dietrich von und zu Fürt.

The pilots and fight crews of the hundreds of space fighters which had been assigned to all the carriers that went into mothballs at President Buchwald’s orders had initially been reassigned to various orbital forts and other space-based Fleet installations. Some received reassignment orders and moved on to other duty stations, while being replaced with others coming in on seemingly normal rotations. No one seemed to take particular notice of the fact that the pilots and crews rotating out were of Northern origins, while those replacing them were Southern in theirs.

The older
Lightnings
and
Mustangs
were gradually replaced by newer
Raptors
and
Demons
. Units were shifted from one duty station to another, always a temporary assignment, as if no one quite knew what to do with all of the suddenly orphaned fighter wings. Wherever they were assigned, people bitched about overcrowded facilities, but before too long they were ordered out yet again.

The constant reshuffling became commonplace and no one took particular notice of exactly where these units had gone off to, nor had many cared... just glad to be rid of them. Eventually, they loaded up onto transports and departed from their last duty station, with no one having been notified to expect their arrival… then, seemingly, just vanished into the depths of space without notice.

As requested in the mysterious communiqué, J.P. Aneke arrived at the Imperial Germanic embassy in Waston precisely at 9:00 AM. A corporal in the service dress field-gray uniform of the Germanic Fleet Marines opened the rear door of Aneke’s limousine as soon as it stopped in the drive, at the side entrance of the embassy building. A sergeant at the door spoke in passable English as soon as Aneke exited the vehicle:

“If you would please follow me, Herr Aneke,” and opened the door for him. The sergeant led him to an ornate elevator, where he pushed the call button. When the elevator arrived, both men entered and the sergeant pressed the button for the top floor. When the doors opened again, the sergeant gestured to the left, then opened a door on the right, nodding for Aneke to enter.

“If you will please wait here, Herr Aneke, I will inform the baron of your arrival.”

As he stepped into the room, the sergeant closed the door behind him, leaving Aneke alone to admire the distinctly European flavor of the décor. Fancy scrollwork and gold gilding enhanced virtually everything that wasn’t marble. Genuine European blue bloods invariably had no choice but to overdo the living hell out of everything… it was in their genes.
It looks like a damned museum.
At least the fire crackling in the hearth added some semblance of warmth to the otherwise ominously formal room.

Within about five minutes, the door opened and a man entered. He was dressed in full royal regalia — black tunic edged in gold, starburst medals and iron cross at his throat, with a gold sash running shoulder to hip, and a gold stripe running down the side of each pant leg, disappearing into a set of tall black boots…
with gold spurs, for God’s sake!
The man himself appeared to be in his mid-30’s, just at or slightly under six feet tall, with a meticulously groomed dark-brown short beard matching his military-styled hair.

“
Herr Aneke,” the man spoke confidently. “I am Baron Dietrich von und zu Fürt. Thank you for coming.” The baron gestured towards the two large chairs set before the fireplace. “Please, be seated.”

Aneke sat down, but the baron grabbed a crystal bell from off the mantel and rang it before seating himself in the chair opposite. As if he were already standing outside the door waiting for the sound of that small bell, a servant immediately entered carrying a silver serving tray with two large cognac snifters and an unopened bottle between them. Aneke wasn’t surprised by this, as Europeans never dived directly into business, but religiously observed the social graces first.
How much more so, their nobility?

The servant set the tray down on the small, marble-topped table between them, and turned slightly towards Aneke as he began to open the incredibly ornate bottle that appeared half molten gold and half sparkling diamonds. Aneke’s eyes naturally drifted towards the unusual decanter for a better look — and his breath caught in his throat.

My God, that’s an actual 140-year-old
Henri VI Dudognon. $5 million per bottle!
Aneke had never tasted the most costly cognac in the universe, nor did he know anyone who had. Of course, as a billionaire himself he could have certainly afforded it, but at that price, it seemed overly ostentatious, even for him.
What kind of wealth must a man possess, to serve a bottle of $5 million cognac just to open a business meeting?

The servant poured a perfect portion of the incredibly expensive cognac into each of the two snifters, capped the bottle and left. Both men reached for their cognac, but neither drank right away. Both were sophisticated enough to know one held the glass in the hands for six to ten minutes, allowing the cognac to warm sufficiently before finally sipping. Aneke had never seen a cognac with such a deep, rich brown color, which flashed a brilliant red in the light of the fireplace. This experience was going to be extraordinary, however their business discussions turned out. Although he was loath to admit it, even to himself, Aneke was impressed.

“One thing I must admit about the French,” said the baron. “While I’m not impressed with much of anything else about them, they do truly excel at producing exquisite things associated with one’s mouth. Food, wine, cognac — their women especially.”

The young baron gave Aneke a knowing smile, and Aneke couldn’t suppress a soft chuckle — something he almost never did.
I’ve seen it all now… a German with a sense of humor. Who could have ever guessed?

The two men exchanged pleasantries as they awaited the perfect moment to savor the king of cognacs. Aneke normally detested small talk as a complete waste of valuable time, but right at this moment, somehow that instinct was muted... mellowed by the magic elixir he held between his hands.