The Hydrogen Sonata

respect; the techs — the ships too — maintain there is absolutely zero possibility of anything similar taking over any part of the running of the vessels; stuff like this can watch and wait and signal if it finds a way, but it can’t affect.”

“And the Churkun?” Banstegeyn asked. “What’s it — is it returning to—?”

“The Churkun announced its determination to Sublime as soon as possible,” the marshal said. “Nothing more has been heard of it since so either it has already gone or it is still preparing to.” Chekwri smiled humourlessly. “I understand that the aftermath of battle, even a one-sided one, is not generally considered to constitute the most favourable condition for the instigation of Sublimation.” The pretended-at smile disappeared. “And kindly keep that secret, too, Septame. The ship didn’t announce this publicly and we’d rather people think it’s still with us; the fleet’s reduced enough as it is.”

Banstegeyn opened his mouth, seemed to catch himself, then said, “All right. Never mind. What about the Fourteenth?”

“We are almost certain—”

The septame held up one hand. “‘We’?”

“An absolute minimum of my best, most trusted people know we’re looking for something, not what it is,” the marshal said. “It’s all in hand, all working. The good, the very good news is that we are almost certain the information is held by probably only one substrate in the Fourteenth’s HQ, and known to a handful of their top brass, at most. Nobody else. Not yet.”

“Not yet for how long?”

“Can’t say. All we know is they haven’t tried to share this so far, to the best of our knowledge.”

Banstegeyn looked to one side and rubbed his fingers as though testing the feel of an invisible piece of cloth. “Of course, they might not do anything with it. They might just sit on it.”

“That is a possibility,” the marshal said, sounding doubtful.

“We could just ask them, I suppose,” he said, looking at the marshal, and smiling. “They might even listen to reason.”

“We could,” she said. “They might.” She held his gaze, kept her expression neutral.

“Let’s do that, then,” the septame said, sitting back. The marshal’s face betrayed the tiniest flicker of surprise. “Though,” Banstegeyn said, sitting forward again, “take me through what else you were thinking of.”

Chekwri frowned. “One approach might preclude the other. To ask would be to warn, and then any other choice would be closed off.”

“What if,” the septame said, “one waited to make this appeal to reason until the other choice was available… at a moment’s notice?”

The marshal seemed to think for a moment. “Given the capabilities of the technologies involved, especially the potential rapidity of response they possess, even a moment might be warning enough to turn a potentially successful action into one that was sure to fail.”

“Hmm,” Banstegeyn said, sitting back again. “Then it would certainly be foolish to give any greater degree of warning, wouldn’t it?”

The marshal’s eyes narrowed a little as she said, “Quite.”

“What did you have in mind?” he asked her. “What does it involve?”

“It involves a fast, powerful ship, a single surgical strike with full end-operator tactical-choice freedom and — in case any further action is required — a micro-force of just two: a highly augmented special forces field-colonel and a non-humanoid combat arbite.”

“And this would be in, on—”

“Eshri, Izenion system.”

Banstegeyn bit his lower lip. He looked away. “Against our own people…”

“Who put a piece of spyware into another regiment’s capital ship nearly five hundred years ago, who might have done the same thing to other elements of the fleet and who could, if they wanted…” The marshal let her voice trail off.

“… potentially jeopardise the whole Subliming,” the septame said, still looking to one side, rubbing his lip now. He looked at her. “How soon can we put all this together?”

“It already is together, Septame. The assets are presently in transit for Izenion.”

Banstegeyn widened his eyes. “Are they now?”

“I instructed the battle-cruiser Uagren to depart Zyse system for Izenion twenty minutes ago. It is recallable at any point. It seemed rash to hesitate once the materiel and personnel were collated. And nothing irresilable happens without your express permission.”

“How long until I would have to make a decision?”

“The Uagren’s travel time to Izenion is between forty-six and fifty-four hours, depending on whether it flies through or comes to a local stop. Say forty-five hours to go yes/no on any pre-agreed action re the former, though if there’s no further sign of development from the Fourteenth HQ, I’d advise the local stop; that way we have a chance of dealing with any loose ends or unanticipated post-strike outcomes immediately rather than half a day later; there’s nothing else we can get to Izenion sufficiently quickly to provide immediate back-up if the Uagren commits to a fly-through mission. In that case, say fifty-three hours. To leave time to switch from one mission profile to another — fly-through to local stop — a decision would be required thirty-eight hours from now. That would be your first decision-point: in thirty-eight hours.”

“And if I decide nothing; if no decision is made?”

“The ship flies straight through Izenion system and loops back to return here without taking any action at all.”

“Good. Let’s leave that as the default, for now.” He took a deep breath. “So. Thirty-eight hours, forty-five and fifty-three. I’ll try to remember.”

The marshal smiled thinly. “Obviously we must accept that the usual restrictions apply to committing any part of this to any form of memory other than that we were born with.”

Banstegeyn lifted his time-to from his chest and twirled a platinum knob on it. “I take it it won’t represent too great a security threat if I set an alarm.” He aligned the alarm hand, then looked up at the marshal’s expressionless face. She remained silent. He sighed, let the time-to fall back against his chest. “Really? ”

“It would be circumstantial, but in the event of something going wrong and a subsequent investigation…”

“A subsequent investigation?” Banstegeyn said, incredulous. “We’re supposed to be Subliming in…” he glanced at the time-to, “… twenty-two days, one hour.”

“Nevertheless. Foolish to risk what need not be risked. I’ll be in touch shortly before a decision is needed.”

Banstegeyn sighed and unset the alarm. He looked at Chekwri. “This does have to happen, you know,” he said. “The Subliming. It has to happen now, and completely, or not…” Another sigh. He felt suddenly tired. “I’ve looked at the statistics, the sims. For a species like ours, if there’s a stall, it’s likely to take another three to five generations before it actually happens. That’s…” He shook his head. “That’s why this has to happen, Madame Marshal.”

Marshal Chekwri, Commander in Chief of the Home System Regiment, was silent a little while longer, then said, “That is why we will make sure that it does, Septame.”

Five (S -22)

The Caconym, a Culture Limited Offensive Unit of the Troublemaker class, spun slowly above the forest of writhing, wildly shining loops that was the surface of the orange-red star Sapanatcheon. The ship rotated gently in the midst of the blasts of radiation, charged particles and magnetic force coming swirling in from almost every direction, though mostly from below, where a sunspot the size of a gas giant planet was passing slowly beneath. The LOU was taking readings and collecting data, for what it was worth, but really it was