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Authors: Scott Westerfeld
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was bulky, they were difficult to maintain, and were primarily a defensive weapon.
But revealed against the bright background of the crumpling array was a host of monitors. They stretched across its shining expanse in a vast, hexagonal pattern.
Hundreds of them.
Then synesthesia went dark; Marx’s drone had finally died.
Ensign Tyre heard a gurgle from Data Master Kax at her feet, but she ignored the grim sound. Tyre rewound the scout’s viewpoint stream a few seconds, and froze it on a frame in which the Legis sun had revealed the monitor drones.
Ensign Tyre blinked as she looked at them.
They were short-range weapons, primarily for defense. They had no drives and little intelligence, just lots and lots of projectile firepower. If a small warship like the
Lynx
were to stumble amongst hundreds of them, it would be torn to pieces by their collective kinetic attack.
And the
Lynx
was headed straight for the battlecruiser and into the intervening field of blackbodies, unaware of their deadly, silent presence.
She had to alert the captain.
Tyre opened a line to Hobbes. The executive officer did not immediately respond; there were probably a dozen crew of superior rank clamoring for her attention.
Tyre waited, the seconds ticking away, the
Lynx
hurtling toward the deadly blackbody drones, three thousand kilometers closer every second.
“Priority, priority.”
The priority icon appeared before her in second sight. The icon was for “extreme emergencies” only, a term that held awesome power here in Data Analysis. Kax had never used it. Tyre had certainly never thought to invoke it herself; it was the data master’s prerogative. And if she were wrong about what the vast array of drones meant, misuse of the priority icon in battle would be a terrible mark against her forever.
Tyre stared at the frozen image again. Hundreds of them, she reminded herself. The data were unambiguous.
She switched to the diagnostic channel again. There were casualties all across the ship, hull and equipment damage, even fatalities. It could be minutes before Hobbes responded to a lowly ensign.
Tyre put out her trembling and bloody hand to the icon.
Not authorized, the icon blinked.
She swore. Kax was still alive and on-station. As far as the
Lynx
was concerned, he was still in command, and was the only analyst qualified to make this judgment. Tyre cleared her second sight and looked down to where Rogers cradled the data master’s head. Kax seemed hardly to have a face at all. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he still had second sight, even though his eyes were destroyed.
There wasn’t time to ask. Kax could hardly breathe; he couldn’t be thinking clearly with an injury like that.
“Rogers,” she ordered. “Pull the data master out of the room.”
“What?”
“Pick him up and drag him from the room. Get him off the station.” Tyre said it with all the force she could manage. Her ragged voice gave the words an authority she didn’t feel.
Rogers hesitated, looking at the other two ratings.
“Rogers! The
Lynx
won’t recognize my rank with him in here.”
“But there’s more glass out—”
“Do it!”
Rogers jumped, then stooped to gingerly lift the wounded Kax. He pulled the bloody man toward the doorway, his shredded uniform scraping across the glass and out into the access shaft.
Tyre breathed deep, and touched the priority icon again.
“Please listen,” she murmured to herself.
The icon shifted in the air, folding into a bright point, and requested her missive. She attached the compiled frame showing the host of blackbody drones and gestured the Send command.
A few seconds later, Hobbes’s voice responded.
“My god,” the ExO said. Tyre breathed a sigh of relief at the woman’s tone. At least Hobbes understood.
“Where the hell’s Kax?”
“Injured. Blind, I think.”
“Shit. Get up to the captain’s planning room, then,” the Executive Officer ordered. “And get ready to explain
But revealed against the bright background of the crumpling array was a host of monitors. They stretched across its shining expanse in a vast, hexagonal pattern.
Hundreds of them.
Then synesthesia went dark; Marx’s drone had finally died.
Ensign Tyre heard a gurgle from Data Master Kax at her feet, but she ignored the grim sound. Tyre rewound the scout’s viewpoint stream a few seconds, and froze it on a frame in which the Legis sun had revealed the monitor drones.
Ensign Tyre blinked as she looked at them.
They were short-range weapons, primarily for defense. They had no drives and little intelligence, just lots and lots of projectile firepower. If a small warship like the
Lynx
were to stumble amongst hundreds of them, it would be torn to pieces by their collective kinetic attack.
And the
Lynx
was headed straight for the battlecruiser and into the intervening field of blackbodies, unaware of their deadly, silent presence.
She had to alert the captain.
Tyre opened a line to Hobbes. The executive officer did not immediately respond; there were probably a dozen crew of superior rank clamoring for her attention.
Tyre waited, the seconds ticking away, the
Lynx
hurtling toward the deadly blackbody drones, three thousand kilometers closer every second.
“Priority, priority.”
The priority icon appeared before her in second sight. The icon was for “extreme emergencies” only, a term that held awesome power here in Data Analysis. Kax had never used it. Tyre had certainly never thought to invoke it herself; it was the data master’s prerogative. And if she were wrong about what the vast array of drones meant, misuse of the priority icon in battle would be a terrible mark against her forever.
Tyre stared at the frozen image again. Hundreds of them, she reminded herself. The data were unambiguous.
She switched to the diagnostic channel again. There were casualties all across the ship, hull and equipment damage, even fatalities. It could be minutes before Hobbes responded to a lowly ensign.
Tyre put out her trembling and bloody hand to the icon.
Not authorized, the icon blinked.
She swore. Kax was still alive and on-station. As far as the
Lynx
was concerned, he was still in command, and was the only analyst qualified to make this judgment. Tyre cleared her second sight and looked down to where Rogers cradled the data master’s head. Kax seemed hardly to have a face at all. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if he still had second sight, even though his eyes were destroyed.
There wasn’t time to ask. Kax could hardly breathe; he couldn’t be thinking clearly with an injury like that.
“Rogers,” she ordered. “Pull the data master out of the room.”
“What?”
“Pick him up and drag him from the room. Get him off the station.” Tyre said it with all the force she could manage. Her ragged voice gave the words an authority she didn’t feel.
Rogers hesitated, looking at the other two ratings.
“Rogers! The
Lynx
won’t recognize my rank with him in here.”
“But there’s more glass out—”
“Do it!”
Rogers jumped, then stooped to gingerly lift the wounded Kax. He pulled the bloody man toward the doorway, his shredded uniform scraping across the glass and out into the access shaft.
Tyre breathed deep, and touched the priority icon again.
“Please listen,” she murmured to herself.
The icon shifted in the air, folding into a bright point, and requested her missive. She attached the compiled frame showing the host of blackbody drones and gestured the Send command.
A few seconds later, Hobbes’s voice responded.
“My god,” the ExO said. Tyre breathed a sigh of relief at the woman’s tone. At least Hobbes understood.
“Where the hell’s Kax?”
“Injured. Blind, I think.”
“Shit. Get up to the captain’s planning room, then,” the Executive Officer ordered. “And get ready to explain
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