The machine was a machine. That constituted both its strength and its weakness It would do what it supposed to do, which, if its programming followed the dictates of logic, meant achieving its objective in the shortest possible period of time, while expending the minimum amount of energy required to get the job done.
He, however, was human, which meant he could do anything he frigging wanted to do, no matter how stupid that might seem.
Williams turned the yoke to the left, fought the gee forces that threatened to distort his movements, and checked the heads-up display (HUD). The enemy fighter appeared as a three-dimensional red outline. Suddenly, the ships were headed at each other at a high rate of combined speed. The smuggler steered into the center of the sighting grid, gave a whoop of joy, and sent another transmission. “You got balls?
Steel balls? Let’s find out.”
The fighter’s processor made note of the change, ran the numbers, and received negative results. Since it was bow-on, the target vessel would be extremely hard to hit. Not only that, but there was the very real possibility of a head-on collision, which while it would almost certainly destroy the enemy, would have similar implications for the fighter.
Something the Hoon was almost sure to disapprove of.
Added to that was the fact that the tactics employed by the opposition didn’t make much sense, suggesting that the enemy intelligence was inferior, defective, or—and this seemed unlikely—possessed of a plan so sophisticated that only one such as the Hoon would be capable of understanding it. The oncoming vessel was closer now, a lot closer, and showed no sign of turning away. A subprocessor signaled alarm. The Sheen fired two missiles, turned to the left, and ran into a beam of coherent light. It was powerful, much more powerful than a ship of that displacement would logically have, and therefore unexpected. The force field that protected the fighter, and was the origin of the name “Sheen,” flared and went down. Steel turned to liquid, a drive went critical, and the machine exploded. Willy saw the fireball, heard the tone, and the impact all at the same time. One of the enemy missiles had missed—but the other struck its target. The Molly took the blow, seemed to hesitate, and took a jog to starboard.
Most of the remaining green lights morphed to red, a klaxon began to bleat, and the control yoke went dead. Willy swore, attempted to kill power, and discovered that he couldn’t. The ship was hauling butt, heading out past the sun, bound for nowhere. The planet Arballa, to which the smuggler had been headed, was off to port. Way off to port.
Williams bit his lip, checked to see if the auxiliary steering jets were on line, and discovered most of them were. He fired two in combination, the vessel jerked to port, and the smuggler dared to hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could bring her in.
It took the better part of ten minutes, plus a dozen minute adjustments, but he brought the Molly around. Finally, convinced that the ship was on course, Willy sent a message: “Confederate vessel CVL9769 to any Confederate warship—over.”
There was a pause while the signal made the necessary journey, but the reply was as prompt as the laws of physics would allow. The voice belonged to a corn tech named Howsky—and she was bored. Nothing interesting had happened for weeks. ‘This is the vessel Friendship ... we read you loud and clear. Over.”
“Glad to hear it. Friendship, cause I’m declaring an emergency and comin’ in hot. Over.”
Howsky sat up straight, signaled her chief, and eyed an overhead holo. CVL9769 appeared as a blue delta. It was coming in fast. “Declare your emergency, 69... What kind of problem do you have? Maybe we can help. Over.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Willy replied, “but I went head-to-head with a Sheen fighter. I nailed the bastard... but took some damage. Navcomp’s down, controls are shot, and the drives won’t answer. They’re maxed, repeat maxed, and my board reads red. Other than that—things couldn’t be better.”
“Got it,” Howsky replied. “Hold one... will advise.
Over.”
The chief called the division commander, who called the executive officer, who confirmed the remote possibility of collision, and notified Captain Boone. He hit the crash alarm and hell broke loose. Klaxons sounded, signs flashed, and traffic was diverted away from the ship. The Friendship’s crew raced to their damage control stations, hatches dropped into place, and the ship’s PA system came to sudden life. Translations followed.
“This is the captain. Nonessential personnel will take seats, strap themselves in, and remain in place till further notice. There is a remote, I repeat remote chance that an incoming vessel will collide with the Friendship, but there is no need for concern. Based on current calculations the ship should miss ours by more than a thousand miles. If that were to change, we have plenty of ways to deal with it. I will provide more news the moment it becomes available. Thank you.”
Down in the senate, where pandemonium reigned only moments before, silence claimed the chamber. Marcott Nankool felt a sudden sense of relief. Suddenly, as if by magic, the arguments had stopped. Not forever, but for the moment, which would act as a damper. The emergency was an opportunity in disguise.
There was a rustling of fabric and the occasional clink of metal as the senators strapped themselves in. The President had just secured his harness when Captain Boone spoke via the implant in his skull. Very few people had either the authority or the means to do so. That being the case, there was no need for an introduction.
