Instead, he would say, “Maybe this…” then give the correct information without challenging the speaker.
In this case, he could well have told Brocius that he was making an ass of himself. The
“Is your navy testing ships with the same experimental particle-beam weapons as the
The room went silent. “Not likely,” Brocius admitted, clearly glad to back away from the discussion.
“This damage was done by a laser,” one of the engineers said. “As you can see along the edges of the gash, the armored plating has melted from heat.”
Brocius focused on the screen and did not speak. I could tell that he was a man who hated to be proven wrong; it must have felt too much like losing.
One of the engineers asked Yamashiro a question in Japanese. Once Yamashiro nodded approval, the man walked over to the screen. He turned to Admiral Brocius. “Admiral, the nature of the particle beam is that it strikes a fixed target and disrupts it. Maybe it is more like a shotgun than a knife.
“This breach is long and relatively straight. The laser that did this cut through the hull like a knife.”
“I am quite aware of the differences between a laser beam and a particle beam,” Brocius said. “You still haven’t answered the bigger question. Why would the Mogats scuttle a perfectly good battleship?”
Brocius paused for a moment to think. Revelation showed in his expression when he spoke again. “Better than good. You’re telling me that the only reason we managed to sink it was that they dropped their shields, right? That would mean that we don’t have any weapons that can get through their shields.”
“I saw the topside of that ship,” I said. “It was unmarked. Either that ship spent the entire battle floating over Porter’s head, or its shields blocked everything Porter fired.”
After this, the room went silent again. Finally, Brocius broke the silence with an officious question. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes,” said one of the engineers. “From what we can tell of the record, there were two broadcast engines on that battleship. There was a small engine still working. Is that correct?”
“That is what I saw,” I said.
“Ah, very curious,” the engineer said.
“Maybe the large one broke down a long time ago,” Brocius said. “Maybe that ship had always operated with a spare.”
“Maybe so,” Yamashiro agreed. He sat nodding, a solemn expression on his face. “We need more information. My engineers have told me that judging by its size, this smaller engine would not be able to generate enough of a field to broadcast a full-sized battleship.”
“Interesting theory. Is there anything else?” Brocius asked. When no one said anything, he left the room.
Several questions hung in the air.
“If we can’t wear down their shields, our ships won’t stand a chance,” I said quietly. “Did they have anything like this when you were on their side?”
Now that Brocius had left the room, Yamashiro finally produced a pack of cigarettes. He lit one. I could tell he had wanted that smoke all meeting long. “Harris, we never saw the Mogats produce any sort of military technology. They are a population of converts.
“From what we saw, they lacked the resources to manufacture this smaller broadcast engine. In my experience, there are few engineers or soldiers among them.”
“They do have Amos Crowley,” I said. Crowley was a highly decorated general who had defected to the Atkins Believers.
“Yes, but maybe General Crowley is involved in land strategies more than naval.” In non-Yamashiro terms, this translated to,
“So where did the Mogats get the shields?” I asked. “Why couldn’t we hurt their ships?”
“In my opinion, they must have a new ally,” Yamashiro said.
“A renegade from the Confederate Arms?” I asked. “Maybe they have an ally in the Perseus Arm.”
“Maybe not a Confederate planet,” Yamashiro said. “If any of the Confederate planets had such technology, we would have used it when we attacked Earth.”
“Whoever it is, they have to be in the Perseus Arm. The Mogats had to have had their fleet somewhere nearby to know we had boarded their ship,” I said.
“Maybe not,” Yamashiro said.
“Maybe not?” I asked.
“My engineers and I have spent a great deal of time discussing possible uses for this second broadcast engine. We all agree that the Mogats protected that engine even as they sacrificed their ship.”
“What did you come up with?” I asked.
“This is just a theory,” Yamashiro said. “Some of my men believe that they are using that ship as a broadcast station. If they place enough stations around the galaxy, they can create a network,” Yamashiro said.
I thought about that. “But they don’t need a broadcast network. They have a self-broadcasting fleet.” After a moment’s more consideration, I said, “You said that engine was too small to send a big ship.”
“Perhaps they do not want the network for transportation. Maybe they will use their network for communications. The engine you saw was running continuously, just like the engines in a network. It could send and receive signals anywhere in the galaxy.”
“The Mogats,” I said, shaking my head. “Who can understand those lousy speckers?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Is that a Bible?” Colonel Grayson’s face was full of mirth as he asked this. He looked about ready to burst into uncontrollable laughter.
“Yes, sir, it is,” I said. I had just stowed my two rucksacks in the locker and started back to my seat.
“You afraid of broadcasting, son?” the colonel asked.
I knew a bit about Grayson. He was a recent promotion. Until this year, he’d commanded a boot camp. When the Mogats destroyed the orphanages, the Unified Authority Marine Corps ran out of recruits, and the boot camps closed. Men like Grayson, who’d spent their careers bullying clones, had to move to the field.
Grayson was an older man, probably in his late forties. Some of the stubble along the freshly shaved sides of his head had turned white.
“Do you always travel with a Bible?” he asked.
“No, sir,” I said. “I just brought…”
“The way I always heard it, you clones don’t believe in God. That right, son? You’re that Liberator clone. You’re the clone that knows he’s a clone.”
I knew what was happening. This was my comeuppance. Grayson probably knew my background better than I knew his. Grayson knew that I had once held the rank of colonel, and he wanted to make sure I knew my place. I was no longer an officer, and I had never been a natural-born. Boot-camp officers. You can take them out of the camps but you can’t take the camps out of them.
“I can’t speak for all Liberators…”
“Sure you can, boy. You’re all that’s left of them.” There was a gleam in the colonel’s brown eyes. He enjoyed this shit, but he would not take it much further. On some level he had to know that I had Admiral Brocius watching my back. Unless he wanted to spend the rest of his career commanding an abandoned boot camp, Grayson would
