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Synopsis
Starworld is a novel by Harry Harrison, author of innumerable science fiction novels and stories.
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Release date: July 3, 2012
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Print pages: 200
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Starworld
Harry Harrison
Starworld
One
The battered freighter had been on fusion drive ever since it had passed the orbit of Mars. It was pointed at Earth--or rather at the place where the Earth would be in a few hours time. All of its electronic apparatus had been either shut down or was operating at the absolute minimum output--behind heavy shielding. The closer they came to Earth the greater their chance of detection. And their instant destruction.
"We're taking the war to them," the political commander said. Before the revolution he had been a professor of economics at a small university on a distant planet; the emergency had changed everything.
"You don't have to convince me," Blakeney said. "I was on the committee that ordered this attack. And I'm not happy with the discrimination target program."
"I'm not trying to convince. I'm just enjoying the thought. I had family on Teoranta ..."
"They're gone," Blakeney said. "The planet's gone. You have to forget them."
"No. I want to remember them. As far as I am concerned this attack is being launched-in their memory. And in memory of all the others savaged and destroyed by Earth down through the centuries. We're fighting back at last. Taking the war to them."
"I'm still concerned about the software."
"You worry too much. One single bomb has to be dropped on Australia. How can you miss an island that big, an entire continent?"
"I'll tell you exactly how. When we release the scout ship it will have our velocity and will accelerate from that basic speed. The computer cannot make a mistake because there will be time for only a single pass. Do you realize what the closing velocity will be? Tre-mendous!" He took out his calculator and began punching in figures. The ship's commander raised his hand.
"Enough. I have no head for mathematics. I know only that our best people modified the scout ship for this attack. The DNA-constructed virus will eat and destroy any food crop. You yourself prepared the program to pilot the ship, to locate the target, to drop the bomb. They'll know it's war then."
"It's because I worked on the program that I am unsure. Too many variables. I'm going down for another test run."
"Do that. I'm perfectly secure, but please yourself. But watch the time. Only a few hours more. Once we penetrate their detection net it will have to be hit and run with no staying around to watch the results."
"It won't take long," Blakeney said, turning and leaving the bridge.
Everything has been jury-rigged, he thought as he went down the empty corridors of the ship. Even the crew. An unarmed freighter daring to attack the heart of the Earth Commonwealth. But the plan was wild enough to work. They had been building up speed ever since they had shut down the space drive, well outside the orbit of Mars. The ship should hurtle past Earth and be safely away before the defenders could launch a counterattack. But as they passed the planet the small scout ship they carried, secured to the outer hull, would be launched under computer control. This was what worried him. All the circuitry was bread-boarded,lashed together, a complicated one-shot. If it failed the entire mission failed. He would have to go through all of the tests just one last time.
The tiny spacecraft, smaller even than a normal lifeboat, was secured to the outer hull by steel braces equipped with explosive bolts. A crawl tube had been fixed in place so that the scout ship shared the larger ship's atmosphere, making installation and servicing that much easier. Blakeney slipped in through the tube, then frowned at the circuits and apparatus bolted onto the walls of the tiny cabin. He turned on the screen, punched up the inspection menu and began running through the tests.
On the bridge an alarm sounded hoarsely and a series of numbers began marching across the watch operator's screen. The political commander came and looked over his shoulder.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
"We've crossed their detection web, probably the outermost one from Earth."
"Then they know that we're here?"
"Not necessarily. We're on the plane of the ecliptic ... ."
"Translation?"
"The imaginary plane, the level on which all of the planets in the solar system ride. Also all of the meteoric debris. We're too far out for them to have caught any radiation from the ship so we're just another hunk of space junk, a ferrous meteor. Now. The web's alerted to us and more apparatus will be trained in our direction. Laser, radar, whatever they have. At least it should work like that. Well find out soon. We're recording all their signals. When we get back we'll have a record of everything. When it's analyzed we'll know a good deal more about how their setup works."
When, the political commander thought, not if. Nothing wrong with the morale. But there was anotherhalf to this mission. The virus strike. He looked at the time readout and called through to the scout ship.
"We're entering the red zone now. Less than half an hour to separation. How are you doing?"
"Just finishing up. As soon as I clear this program I'll join you."
"Good. I want you to ..."
"Pulsed radar locked onto us!" the watch operator called out. "They know we're here." An auxiliary screen lit up near his elbow and he pointed to the readout. "Our reflectors have been launched. So where they had one blip on their screens before they now have a half dozen all the same, but separating at different speeds on different courses."
"They won't know which one is the real ship?"
"Not at the moment. But they know what we've done and they'll start analyzing course predictions, forward and back in time. They'll spot the real one. But by the time their computers have worked that out, ours will have initiated other defenses. It's a good program. Written by the best physicists and comptechs."
The political commander was less than reassured by the operator's reasoning. He did not like to think that his life depended on the non-random dispersal of magnetic charges and electrons that made up the program. Playing an intellectual game with the enemy computers. He looked out at the tiny sparks of the stars, the growing disk of the Earth, and tried to imagine the web of light beams and radio waves surging around them. He could not. He had to take it on faith that they were there and working at speeds infinitely beyond his own. A human being could not fight a battle in space. The machines did that. The crew were just captive spectators. His hands were clenched tightly behind his back, though he was not aware of it.
There was a series of small thudding sounds, morefelt than heard, followed by an explosion that actually shook the deck beneath his feet.
"We've been hit!" he called out unthinkingly.
"Not yet." The watch operator glanced at his screens. "All of our remaining dupes and reflectors have been launched, then the scout ship. Mission accomplished--but now we have to get out of here. Fusion drive cut ... space drive circuits now energized. As soon as the gravity fields allow we'll be on our way."
The political commander's eyes widened at a sudden thought; he turned sharply about.
"Where's Blakeney?" he called out. But no one on the bridge had heard him. They were counting the seconds, waiting for the missiles that must have surely been launched in their direction.
The political commander felt a sudden arrow of despair. He knew where Blakeney was.
He had been right, absolutely right! And they called themselves comptechs. They couldn't write a program to win at tic-tac-toe. Orbital mechanics, fine, simple trig and geometry and calculus. Child's play. But comparison plane orientation was apparently well beyond them.
Blakeney watched with satisfaction for less than a second while the cursor on the computer roved all over the highly amplified image of Earth--then froze on the great sweep of a circular storm over Europe. He switched on the override and put his finger on the screen, on the only bit of Australia clear of the cloud cover of a tropical storm. When the glowing blob of the cursor jumped to this spot he typed in POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION and took his finger away. At least the moronic thing could be counted upon to stay there once orientated.
None too early. The engine note changed as the course shifted, just moments later. Good. He followed the program display, then unlocked the launchingswitch as they hurtled toward the top of the atmosphere, ready to release manually if there were any more difficulties.
There were none. At the same instant that zero appeared on the screen the ejection mechanism thudded heavily. As the ship arced slowly away to avoid the outer traces of atmosphere, the heavy ceramic container was hurtling toward Earth. He knew what would be happening next; this thing at least had been well designed. Layer after layer of ablative material would burn away as it impacted on the thickening air. It would grow hot--and slow down--with the frozen virus locked safely into the cryogenic flask inside. Then a layer of ceramic would fall away to reveal an opening for the air to enter, to impact on a pressure gauge inside.
At exactly 10,769 meters, in the middle of the jet stream, the explosive charge would explode releasing the contents of the flask.
The wind would carry the virus across Australia, perhaps to New Zealand as well--a carefully designed virus that would attack and destroy any and all of the food crops grown on Earth.
Blakeney smiled at the thought as the missile hit.
It had an atomic warhead so that, to the watchers below, there was suddenly a new sun just visible through the clouds.
Copyright © 2012 by Harry Harrison.
One
The battered freighter had been on fusion drive ever since it had passed the orbit of Mars. It was pointed at Earth--or rather at the place where the Earth would be in a few hours time. All of its electronic apparatus had been either shut down or was operating at the absolute minimum output--behind heavy shielding. The closer they came to Earth the greater their chance of detection. And their instant destruction.
"We're taking the war to them," the political commander said. Before the revolution he had been a professor of economics at a small university on a distant planet; the emergency had changed everything.
"You don't have to convince me," Blakeney said. "I was on the committee that ordered this attack. And I'm not happy with the discrimination target program."
"I'm not trying to convince. I'm just enjoying the thought. I had family on Teoranta ..."
"They're gone," Blakeney said. "The planet's gone. You have to forget them."
"No. I want to remember them. As far as I am concerned this attack is being launched-in their memory. And in memory of all the others savaged and destroyed by Earth down through the centuries. We're fighting back at last. Taking the war to them."
"I'm still concerned about the software."
"You worry too much. One single bomb has to be dropped on Australia. How can you miss an island that big, an entire continent?"
"I'll tell you exactly how. When we release the scout ship it will have our velocity and will accelerate from that basic speed. The computer cannot make a mistake because there will be time for only a single pass. Do you realize what the closing velocity will be? Tre-mendous!" He took out his calculator and began punching in figures. The ship's commander raised his hand.
"Enough. I have no head for mathematics. I know only that our best people modified the scout ship for this attack. The DNA-constructed virus will eat and destroy any food crop. You yourself prepared the program to pilot the ship, to locate the target, to drop the bomb. They'll know it's war then."
"It's because I worked on the program that I am unsure. Too many variables. I'm going down for another test run."
"Do that. I'm perfectly secure, but please yourself. But watch the time. Only a few hours more. Once we penetrate their detection net it will have to be hit and run with no staying around to watch the results."
"It won't take long," Blakeney said, turning and leaving the bridge.
Everything has been jury-rigged, he thought as he went down the empty corridors of the ship. Even the crew. An unarmed freighter daring to attack the heart of the Earth Commonwealth. But the plan was wild enough to work. They had been building up speed ever since they had shut down the space drive, well outside the orbit of Mars. The ship should hurtle past Earth and be safely away before the defenders could launch a counterattack. But as they passed the planet the small scout ship they carried, secured to the outer hull, would be launched under computer control. This was what worried him. All the circuitry was bread-boarded,lashed together, a complicated one-shot. If it failed the entire mission failed. He would have to go through all of the tests just one last time.
The tiny spacecraft, smaller even than a normal lifeboat, was secured to the outer hull by steel braces equipped with explosive bolts. A crawl tube had been fixed in place so that the scout ship shared the larger ship's atmosphere, making installation and servicing that much easier. Blakeney slipped in through the tube, then frowned at the circuits and apparatus bolted onto the walls of the tiny cabin. He turned on the screen, punched up the inspection menu and began running through the tests.
On the bridge an alarm sounded hoarsely and a series of numbers began marching across the watch operator's screen. The political commander came and looked over his shoulder.
"What does it mean?" he asked.
"We've crossed their detection web, probably the outermost one from Earth."
"Then they know that we're here?"
"Not necessarily. We're on the plane of the ecliptic ... ."
"Translation?"
"The imaginary plane, the level on which all of the planets in the solar system ride. Also all of the meteoric debris. We're too far out for them to have caught any radiation from the ship so we're just another hunk of space junk, a ferrous meteor. Now. The web's alerted to us and more apparatus will be trained in our direction. Laser, radar, whatever they have. At least it should work like that. Well find out soon. We're recording all their signals. When we get back we'll have a record of everything. When it's analyzed we'll know a good deal more about how their setup works."
When, the political commander thought, not if. Nothing wrong with the morale. But there was anotherhalf to this mission. The virus strike. He looked at the time readout and called through to the scout ship.
"We're entering the red zone now. Less than half an hour to separation. How are you doing?"
"Just finishing up. As soon as I clear this program I'll join you."
"Good. I want you to ..."
"Pulsed radar locked onto us!" the watch operator called out. "They know we're here." An auxiliary screen lit up near his elbow and he pointed to the readout. "Our reflectors have been launched. So where they had one blip on their screens before they now have a half dozen all the same, but separating at different speeds on different courses."
"They won't know which one is the real ship?"
"Not at the moment. But they know what we've done and they'll start analyzing course predictions, forward and back in time. They'll spot the real one. But by the time their computers have worked that out, ours will have initiated other defenses. It's a good program. Written by the best physicists and comptechs."
The political commander was less than reassured by the operator's reasoning. He did not like to think that his life depended on the non-random dispersal of magnetic charges and electrons that made up the program. Playing an intellectual game with the enemy computers. He looked out at the tiny sparks of the stars, the growing disk of the Earth, and tried to imagine the web of light beams and radio waves surging around them. He could not. He had to take it on faith that they were there and working at speeds infinitely beyond his own. A human being could not fight a battle in space. The machines did that. The crew were just captive spectators. His hands were clenched tightly behind his back, though he was not aware of it.
There was a series of small thudding sounds, morefelt than heard, followed by an explosion that actually shook the deck beneath his feet.
"We've been hit!" he called out unthinkingly.
"Not yet." The watch operator glanced at his screens. "All of our remaining dupes and reflectors have been launched, then the scout ship. Mission accomplished--but now we have to get out of here. Fusion drive cut ... space drive circuits now energized. As soon as the gravity fields allow we'll be on our way."
The political commander's eyes widened at a sudden thought; he turned sharply about.
"Where's Blakeney?" he called out. But no one on the bridge had heard him. They were counting the seconds, waiting for the missiles that must have surely been launched in their direction.
The political commander felt a sudden arrow of despair. He knew where Blakeney was.
He had been right, absolutely right! And they called themselves comptechs. They couldn't write a program to win at tic-tac-toe. Orbital mechanics, fine, simple trig and geometry and calculus. Child's play. But comparison plane orientation was apparently well beyond them.
Blakeney watched with satisfaction for less than a second while the cursor on the computer roved all over the highly amplified image of Earth--then froze on the great sweep of a circular storm over Europe. He switched on the override and put his finger on the screen, on the only bit of Australia clear of the cloud cover of a tropical storm. When the glowing blob of the cursor jumped to this spot he typed in POSITIVE IDENTIFICATION and took his finger away. At least the moronic thing could be counted upon to stay there once orientated.
None too early. The engine note changed as the course shifted, just moments later. Good. He followed the program display, then unlocked the launchingswitch as they hurtled toward the top of the atmosphere, ready to release manually if there were any more difficulties.
There were none. At the same instant that zero appeared on the screen the ejection mechanism thudded heavily. As the ship arced slowly away to avoid the outer traces of atmosphere, the heavy ceramic container was hurtling toward Earth. He knew what would be happening next; this thing at least had been well designed. Layer after layer of ablative material would burn away as it impacted on the thickening air. It would grow hot--and slow down--with the frozen virus locked safely into the cryogenic flask inside. Then a layer of ceramic would fall away to reveal an opening for the air to enter, to impact on a pressure gauge inside.
At exactly 10,769 meters, in the middle of the jet stream, the explosive charge would explode releasing the contents of the flask.
The wind would carry the virus across Australia, perhaps to New Zealand as well--a carefully designed virus that would attack and destroy any and all of the food crops grown on Earth.
Blakeney smiled at the thought as the missile hit.
It had an atomic warhead so that, to the watchers below, there was suddenly a new sun just visible through the clouds.
Copyright © 2012 by Harry Harrison.
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