Anvil of Stars

Jennifer shrugged. “I’m not psychic.”

“They will make it,” Hakim said with calm confidence.

“Are you psychic?” Jennifer asked with a kind of innocence, as if he very well might be.

“No,” Hakim said.

Jennifer frowned and concentrated on the star sphere. “Maybe Rosa would know,” she said.

Martin made himself as comfortable as possible in the nose, unfolding a net and hooking it to the wall, then wrapping himself in the net. Andrew Jaguar poked his head through the hatchway, saw Martin, and said, “We’re waiting.”

“I’ll stay here,” Martin said.

“I mean, we’re waiting for orders.”

“There aren’t any for the next hour,’” Martin said. “We drift in close, the Tortoise is on automatic. The bombships do their job and we gather them and we retreat and watch. You know that.”

“We know that,” Andrew said, “but we’re still waiting. We need everybody together, Martin. Everybody.”

Jennifer sniffed. Martin closed his eyes and with a tremendous effort, wanting nothing more than solitude or at most the company of a select few, released himself from the net.

Nothing was appropriate or inappropriate; nothing was condemned. In the cafeteria, four couples made love with theatrical noisiness. Martin skirted them and drifted toward the place the crew of Tortoise had made for him near the cafeteria star sphere. Most eyes were on him, and his weariness and frustration gave way to the numbness of a lamb under the knife. Sacrificing the needs of the self to the needs of the group down to even the smallest impulse to privacy.

The Why. This is the Why.

Hakim and Jennifer followed. Harpal Timechaser sat next to him by the sphere, the only other ex-Pan aboard Tortoise now that Stephanie led the bombships.

Tortoise sharpened all its passive sensors. The star sphere divided to show the bombships, the planetary surface, the heavens beyond, then concentrated on the bombships.

“Still no defenses,” Hakim marveled, head shaking.

“Maybe they’re cowards,” Jennifer said.

Martin looked around the room, suddenly disliking his companions intensely. He shuddered the feeling away and settled into a restless neutrality of emotions, waiting.

The War Mother floated near a wall, still as a monument. After all this is over, can we take a mom with us and set it up in the middle of our town, on the new world, on a pedestal?

The view changed. They saw the bombships up close, all six of them, one by one. Martin recognized Theresa’s ship. He fought to keep the neutrality, but his chest seemed stuffed with straw and his palms were damp. No defenses.

“This is cruel,” said Andrew Jaguar. “We have to do something!”

Martin said nothing. There was nothing for them to do; best to keep them all in one place, all vigilant, all aware of what was happening.

The bombships had descended to within four thousand kilometers of Nebuchadnezzar’s surface. Still, the planet had not changed its aspect; dusty brown with gray patches and green mineral stripes and black spots of reservoirs. Atmosphere clear and calm.

“Hakim,” Martin said softly, “report on seismic disturbances.”

“Nothing new. Same low-level rhythms,” Hakim said.

“Project it for us.”

The traces of crustal and mantle activity moved in graphic display beside the star sphere.

“Can you turn it into sound for us?” Martin asked.

“I will have to increase its frequency, repeat it like an echo.”

“Fine,” Martin said.

So treated, the deep susurration of Nebuchadnezzar became very like a heartbeat, booming and ticking, the repetition false but still informative, ears providing a more natural interpretation of this information than eyes. Martin quickly picked up the actual rhythms of sound as the series of beats rose at once to a higher frequency, dropped back, rose, dropped.

“Small ship between Nebuchadnezzar and Ramses is firing thrusters,” Jennifer reported. With a scowl of concern, Hakim projected the picture, checked the images and interpretation, nodded, glanced at Martin, eyebrow raised.

A very small reaction.

“Pod release in ten minutes,” Harpal said, stating what they all knew, tracking the numbers on their wands.

The room fell quiet. Three of the four couples stopped making love. The fourth became subdued, though still active.

Martin felt sick.

Nebuchadnezzar’s heartbeat changed. Hakim cycled the signal through several enhancements and interpretations, meaning little to most of the crew, and said, “Subsurface activity seems to have decreased.”

“Decreased?” Martin asked.

Seen in the star sphere, Nebuchadnezzar’s atmosphere shimmered. Something sang through the Tortoise’s hull, between a bell tone and the screech of a fingernail on slate.

Martin’s entire body tensed and he rubbed his eyes with one hand. Nobody moved. The War Mother did not move. Seconds passed.

“Jesus Christ,” Harpal Timechaser murmured.

“Quiet,” Martin said.

The fourth couple had separated and put on overalls. It would not be decorous to die naked and in the clinch.

Long minutes passed. Two minutes to releasing the pods and scattering the mines.

The atmosphere rippled again. The simulated beat changed abruptly to a chirp-thud and another bell-screech hurt their ears.

“The planet’s crust has risen and fallen a few centimeters,” Hakim reported.

“The entire crust?” Andrew Jaguar asked, incredulous.

“All that we can see,” Hakim said. “I presume the entire—”

The surface of the planet seemed to shatter, hot white lines racing from the poles to meet at the equator, marking off jagged polygons, then dying into racing small reddish lines, fading again to normal brown.

Hakim’s face blanched. “I don’t know what that was… The mines are released.”

“All eleven of the ships in the outer solar system have turned on thrusters,” Jennifer said.

Martin surveyed the room, working to steady his breathing. “Something’s up,” he said.

The star sphere followed the progress of a pod of mines from a bombship. The pod dropped, exploded in a puff, and thousands of mines spread out in a shimmer, disappearing rapidly. Thirty seconds later, massive blossoms of light spread across the atmosphere. Spinning fireballs cascaded like fireworks, dazzling the eye, too many to count.

That was not supposed to happen.

Some of the bombships seemed to ignite with burning halos.

“Strong traces of anti em reactions,” Hakim said. “Extreme gamma ray production, split nuclei forming alpha particles and larger ions. Cherenkov in the atmosphere… I think perhaps the entire planet is made of anti em…”

“No,” said the War Mother. All faces turned to the painted robot. “The sensors do not support this interpretation.”

“Still, there are anti em reactions,” Hakim said, voice trembling. “The mines have detonated prematurely…”

“Have any mines reached the surface?”

“None,” Hakim said.