of the Singularity itself?” Koenig asked. “Or of what happens if another technic species like us reaches it?” He shrugged. “In any case, if it’s a mistake, it’s our mistake. We should not allow ourselves to be protected from it by the Sh’daar or anyone else. And more than that … don’t you think we should make our own decisions about our future and about who we’re going to play with as we move out into the galaxy? If the Sh’daar fold us into their little empire, they’ll use us like they use the Turusch and the others, right? As frontline warriors? Damn it, Admiral, the Confederation military will end up working for them, puttering around the galaxy putting down upstart technic species … species like we are now. That is, unless they decide to just turn us all into slaves and be done with it!”
“I hadn’t realized, Admiral Koenig, that you were a xenophobe.”
“I am not, Admiral Giraurd. But I do believe in self-determination for my species!”
The two men glared at each other for a moment across the table. Gradually, Koenig relaxed. He’d hoped to get the Pan-European admiral to see reason—as, no doubt, Giraurd had hoped for him—but the argument was going nowhere. Giraurd would not change his mind, and neither would Koenig.
“I see no reason to continue this discussion, Admiral,” he said. “How badly was the Jeanne d’Arc damaged?”
“Our water reserves are gone,” he said with a Gallic shrug. “Repair robots are working on the breached tanks now.”
“I’ve given order that the battlegroup’s repair and fabrication ships be deployed to lend you a hand. There were no casualties?”
“No. Your fighters were … surgically precise.”
In 1921, General William Lendrum “Billy” Mitchell had argued, then demonstrated, that aircraft, only recently emerged as military weapons, could sink battleships. Within another twenty years, air attacks against naval fleets at Taranto and Pearl Harbor would completely change the way wars were fought at sea, but in 1921 the idea was not merely revolutionary, but heretical.
Young Lieutenant Gray had demonstrated a similar principle, one now well known within the military and political hierarchies back home but frequently ignored: a twenty-two-ton fighter could disable a capital ship a kilometer long and massing millions of tons. The trick was in slipping it in exactly where it would be most effective, with enough firepower to overcome the target’s gravitic shielding. Surgical precision, as Giraurd had put it, made possible by advanced technology, was the only means by which a lone gravfighter could take down a far larger foe.
Something of the sort would be necessary if the Terran Confederation was going to win over the Sh’daar.
“The intent was to stop you, Admiral,” Koenig said. “Not hurt you.”
“I could wish, sir, that you had destroyed the Jeanne d’Arc … and me with her.”
Giraurd’s emotional pain showed for a moment, but Koenig ignored it. The man would have to explain his failure later, in front of the Senate Military Directorate. It might even mean the end of his career.
Welcome to the club, Koenig thought.
“Do you anticipate any problem getting the Jeanne d’Arc ready for Alcubierre Drive?”
“No. The damage is superficial. But we will need to take on water.”
“Of course. And this is the place for it.”
Fleet tugs were already jockeying iceteroids in so that the ships of CBG-18 could drink their fill. The Kuiper Belt of any star was the storage freezer for leftovers from that star system’s creation. Asteroids, comet nuclei, icy Kuiper objects like Pluto and Eris back in the home solar system … they drifted out here in centuries-long orbits and at temperatures a few degrees above zero absolute, with the local sun merely the brightest star in a sky filled with stars. Chunks of ice were nuzzled in close to resupply ships, which injected them with self-replicating nanodisassemblers. These, in turn, broke the ice down into fragments a few microns across, separated out the frozen methane, ammonia, and other contaminants, and transported pure water into the shield-cap tanks of the waiting ships. As quickly as one hundred-meter iceteroid had dwindled away, another was moved in to take its place; a quarter of CBG-18’s ships had already been topped off, and the rest would be refueled within four more days.
“As soon as the European contingent has been watered,” Koenig continued, “you can take them back to Sol. It’s a fifty-four-day flight under Alcubierre Drive back to Sol, so you’ll be home by early June. I’ve already spoken with the commanding officers of the other ships. The USNA flotilla will be joining me.”
“And the Chinese?”
Koenig smiled. “They’re still considering the question. Their orders were to support your operations against me … but I suspect they also have orders to keep an eye on what we’re doing out here.”
Beijing, Koenig thought, might well be interested in a separate peace with the Sh’daar, and if so, they needed to keep track of what Koenig’s expeditionary force was doing. The nine-ship Eastern Dawn Hegemon fleet might still decide to accompany the America battlegroup.
How well he could trust them when they did encounter Sh’daar forces was another matter, and one he would address when it came up. The Zheng He and her fighters would be welcome additions to the fleet, however, the next time they met the enemy.
“And where will you be going?” Giraurd asked. “If you’re willing to tell me, of course.”
Koenig considered the question. He didn’t want the politicians on Earth to be too up to date on his plans. He didn’t want CBG-18 to emerge at a target star system and find a Confederation fleet—one larger, better prepared, and more determined than Giraurd’s squadron—waiting for him there.
On the other hand, the next stop on his agenda, taken from the Turusch Directory, was a star called Texaghu Resch, located 133 light years ahead, and some 210 light years from Sol. Even if Giraurd shot the news of Koenig’s planned destination back to Sol on a Sleipnir packet, it would be eighteen days for that leg of the trip, and another 116 days for a fleet to get to Texaghu Resch, not counting the time it would take to assemble such a fleet if the Confederation Senate decided to send one. It would be more than four and a half months before Earth could reach Koenig’s next destination.
CBG-18, on the other hand, would be at Texaghu Resch in another seventy-four days. Whatever they found there, it would be another two months at least before the Confederation Military Directorate could catch up with them.
And by that time, Koenig expected that they would be long, long gone.
“Would the information, do you think, be of help to you personally when you face the Directorate?” Koenig asked.
Giraurd’s eyes widened. “Why should you care?”
“Because I know what it’s like to face losing it all, while doing what I think is my duty.”
Giraurd nodded slowly. “It would help, yes. I wouldn’t be going back … empty-handed.”
“We’re heading for Texaghu Resch. The Agletsch know of it … and it’s listed in the Turusch Directory.”
“Texaghu Resch? Strange name …”
“It’s a G-class star that’s not even visible from Earth, which is why the alien name. According to the Directory, there’s something there the Agletsch call a ‘Sh’daar Node,’ and it appears to have something to do with the Sh’daar communications and control net across the galaxy.”
“Interesting. Is it inhabited?”
“Not according to the Agletsch. Not anymore.”
The two Agletsch guides on board the star carrier America had translated the name Texaghu Resch as something like “the Eye of Resch,” Resch being