Greenberg, Martin H & Segriff, Larry - Guardsmen of Tomorrow.pdf - książki o wampirach - chomciomania

Guardsmen of Tomorrow

Edited by Martin H Greenberg and Larry Segriff

Cover art by Bob Warner.

DAW Book Collectors No. 1169.

DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Putnam Inc.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and

reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received

any payment for the “stripped book.”

Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are

protected by United

States and international trademark law.

with permission of Lit-tle, Brown and Company.

First Printing November 2000 123456789

DAW TRADEMARK HfcCISTHUD

US PAT OFT AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

-MARCA RECISTKADA.

HECHO EN U S A

PRINTED IN THE U S A

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION by Larry Segriff

A SHOW OF FORCE by William H. Keith, Jr .

BLINDFOLD by Robin Wayne Bailey

WIPING OUT by Robert J. Sawyer

SMART WEAPON by Paul Levinson

PROCESSION TO VAR by Andre Norton

THE GEMINI TWINS by Paul Dellinger

THAT DOGGONE VNORPT by Nathan Archer

THE SILVER FLAME by Josepha Sherman

STARDUST by Jean Rabe

KEEPING SCORE by Michael A. Stackpole

ALLIANCES by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

A TIME TO DREAM by Dean Wesley Smith

ENDPOINT INSURANCE by Jane Lindskold

* * *

INTRODUCTION

by Larry Segriff

Adventure stories. FTL ships rocketing through space; the Space Guard keeping vessels safe from

pirates; ray guns, BEMs, and damsels in distress. These are the stories I grew up on, and these are

among the stories I still like to read.

Robert Heinlein. Isaac Asimov. E. E. “Doc” Smith. And, of course, Andre Norton. These are some of

the people whose work I devoured growing up—and, in Andre’s case, whose new books I eagerly look

forward to.

Space opera has changed a lot since the Golden Years of SF. The laws of science are followed more

rigorously, for example (“modern” spaceships don’t bank when they turn), and the people in the stories

tend to be more well-rounded, and even more flawed… more human, if you will. But the heart of space

opera—the rousing sense of adventure, the strong pacing, the exotic settings, the larger-than-life

issues—these haven’t changed. Or, if they’ve changed at all, they’ve only gotten better… as the stories in

this anthology prove.

So sit back, turn the page, and enjoy… but before you do, you might want to buckle your seat belt,

‘cause it’s going to be a wild ride.

A SHOW OF FORCE

by William H. Keith, Jr.

William H. Keith is the author of over fifty novels, divided more or less equally between science fiction

and military technothrillers. While most of his SF is written under his own name, he writes the military

novels under a variety of pseudonyms. His most recent work is Europa Strike , third in a planned series

of military science fiction novels written under the pseudonym Ian Douglas.

Watch your helm, Mr. Sotheby,“ Captain Fifth-Rank Greydon Hazzard said quietly. ”Put a dent in that

thing up ahead and they’re going to be taking it out of your pay for the next ten thousand years

objective.“

“Aye, sir. We’re at fifty-three meters per second, in approach.”

Hazzard could sense the drift of the ship, the tug of gravity, the caress of the photon breeze, the shrill,

insistent drag of the interlocking magnetic fields of planet, star, and galaxy. The frigate Indeterminacy

was edging gently toward the orbital moorings, primary sails folded, her impetus coming now entirely

from way sails and jigs, her secondary drive barely ticking over.

Jacked into the virtual display of the shipnet, Hazzard was immersed in the data feed, with a crystalline,

all-round view of the approach, just as though he were perched out on the fifty-meter thrust of the ship’s

dorsal flying jib spar. The sprawl of Tribaltren Station spread across star-limned blackness dead ahead,

the nearest bastions and field guide towers now just ten kilometers distant, dark and monolithic against

the soft, liquid-light glow of the Milky Way.

The moorings about the station were crowded with other vessels, and there was heavy traffic in the

approach and departure lanes. The steady wink of IFF netbeacons and shipboard running lights crawling

across three dimensions would have been a bewildering tangle of confusion to any observer not equipped

with an AI that could make sense of the chaos and feed it in manageable chunks to the bridge.

“Approach Control signals we’re clear for Bay 12,” the comm officer of the watch announced. That

would be Midshipman cy-Tomlin. Bright kid. Steady, with a streak of laziness that watch-and-watch for

a few subjective months would cure. And of course, with the cy-enhancements, he was of the Chosen

and destined to go far in Union service.

“Very well. I see it.” Text and flickering symbols overlaid sections of Hazzard’s view of the sensory

feedscape around the vessel. He could see the steadily incoming trickle of navigational data both from

the Indy’s helm and from Tribaltren Station Approach Control, see the traffic sites of other ships in the

moorings, see the readouts for all departments and decks of his own ship. All of that information played

across his brain, instantly accessible, but his responsibility was the whole, not any given part. He held

back, aware of the rhythm of ship operations, giving orders when needed, but letting his people do their

jobs. Indy’s officer complement was a good one, well trained and experienced. Her crew, like most

crews in the fleet, was a melage of gutter sweepings, metplex gangers, and pressed c-men, but. by the

Goddess, they were his sweepings, gangers, and c-men, and he was proud of how they’d shaken out

over the past three months subjective.

He took a moment to check crew deployment on the

Indy’s starboard foremast, a constellation of golden stars, each light representing in netgraphic clarity the

position of a sailhandler maintaining the delicate set and trim of the 2,000-ton frigate’s spacesails. At the

moment, only the fore-ways’Is were set, giving the ship just enough of a vector that she could maintain

way.

The image of Tommis Pardoe, Indeterminacy’s First Lieutenant, materialized to the right of Hazzard’s

viewpoint. “A good deployment, First,” he said. “The new hands shaped up well.” Indy had been on

blockade duty off Danibar, three months subjective pacing back and forth at near-c, which had translated

to almost two years of tau minus.

“Thank you, Captain.” He sounded worried.

“Problem, First?”

“Just wondering what the urgency is, sir. The dispatch calling us in to Tribaltren was still smoking when it

came across the comm station. ‘Report immediately,’ it said. Where’s the war?”

“All around us, Tom. We’ll find out in a few hours which particular part of the war is so urgent.”

“I suppose so, sir. But it’s not like they don’t have plenty of assets right here in port.”

His senior lieutenant had a point. Closer in to the mooring station roads, the ship traffic ahead resembled

a swarm of angry stingflies, everything from service bugs, LO coasters, and single-sailed planetary

luggers to huge three-decker first-rates.

An alert klaxon sounded through the shipnet. “Bridge, port lookout! We have a collision alert. Incoming

at port high at two-zero-three plus one nine!”

Hazzard spun his point of view, looking off Indy’s port beam. A ship moved athwart the blue-white

crescent of Tribaltren IV.

“Mass reading! Ninety-eight thousand tons, range 705 kilometers. It’s a first-rater… Goddess !”

That last exclamation accompanied the deployment of a dozen sails, spreading across the first-rater’s

yards. She was huge and blunt-prowed, a five-hundred-meter dagger shape carrying several square

kilometers of mesh sail, a Galactic Union ship of the line. On Indeterminacy ‘s sensory feeds, she was

painted a patchwork red and black, with white trim highlighting the lines of sealed firing ports along her

three gundecks. The G.U. flag materialized across her foreways’ls as their surface displays altered. A

second emblem shimmered into visibility beneath the first, a family crest in red, gold, and black.

“She’s the Victor , Captain,” Lieutenant Pardoe observed. “One-oh-two. Captain First-Rank Arren

Sullivese, commanding. She’s flying Admiral Starlord cy-Dennever’s flag.”

“She’s closing, Captain,” the helm watch called. “Oblique approach at one point one kilometer per

second! Looks like she’s trying to cut us off at the moorings.”

“Damn it,” cy-Tomlin said, “ we have right-of-way.”

Hazzard scowled, the expression safely hidden within the anonymity of the shipnet. Victor had been on

normal approach, her velocity a bit high for that approach corridor. As soon as her helm AIs had

identified a collision danger with the frigate Indeterminacy , though, Victor’s captain had crowded on

more sail, hoping to pass the Indy’s prow, rather than slowing in order to pass astern.

Technically, Victor should back down and allow the Indeterminacy to proceed; vessels to port and

zenith always had right-of-way over ships to starboard and nadir. However…

“You feel big enough to argue with him, Tomlin?” Hazzard said gently. “Maneuvering! Back full!” In any

case, Victor was the burdened vessel right now… burdened with too much mass and too much speed in

a claustrophobically narrow volume of space. First-raters had all the maneuvering finesse of a

Thaldessian bloaterslug, especially when compared to the nimble sail-handling elegance of a frigate. It

made more sense for the tiny Indeterminacy to defer to the drifting mountain of the Victor . “Bring us to

zero closure with the station!”

“Maneuvering back full, aye, sir!”

“Spread more sail! Deploy main tops’ls, port, starboard, and dorsal!”

“Loosing main tops’ls, aye!”

Like all trihull lightjammers, Indy possessed three sets of masts and field-guide spars, canted out and

forward from port, starboard, and dorsal fairings, mizzen and main masts astern of the gundecks,

foremasts well forward, nine masts in all, not counting the trinity of bowsprits reaching far out ahead of

her prow dome.

Sails unfurled, popping taut under the snap of static fields. Their leading faces shimmered, then went

mirror-silver as their trailing surfaces dulled to black, perfectly reflecting the star-misted black of space

and the red-brown, black, and gray battlements of Tribaltren Station ahead. As yards pivoted, the

reflective surfaces of the sails caught the light of Tribaltren’s sun, as the mesh beneath the adaptive

surface display grabbed hold of the local magnetic fields. The total energy striking the sails from forward

was equivalent to less than a ten-thousandth of a gravity, and yet…

“Drive room! Emergency maneuvering! Cut in the main drive!”

Vector drive fields amplified any acceleration, however minute, drawing on the literally inexhaustible

energy of quantum space through a singularity-induced Cashimir cascade to augment the ship’s vector or,

as in this case, to arrest Indeterminacy’s forward momentum. Since everything within the field was

affected uniformly, there was no sensation of deceleration as the Indy slowed sharply. A

two-thousand-ton vessel moving with a relative closure rate of over fifty meters per second could not

stop on the proverbial tenth-credit piece. Still, the Indeterminacy slowed rapidly as the Victor loomed

huge to port.

“Incoming signal from Approach Control,” cy-Tomlin said.

“I should think so. Let’s hear it.”

“ ‘Slow to full stop and yield to incoming traffic.’”

“Already in hand. Mid. Acknowledge.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Too little and too scrabbing late,” Pardoe muttered. ‘’What are those people playing at over there?“

Hazzard didn’t know if he was complaining about Approach Control’s tardiness or the heels-in

maneuver Victor was attempting to pull off. The Victor was still two kilometers off Indy’s port beam,

but through the magnification inherent in the ship optical sensory feed, the immense vessel loomed like a

passing cliff face, with sponsons, barbettes, field projector arrays, and fairings turning hull metal into a

landscape of faceted surfaces and complex topographies, with masts like forest giants, with gun ports

grinning down her gundeck modules like bared teeth.

“Now,” Pardoe said, “just so long as he doesn’t—”

A shudder rolled through the Indeterminacy , a long, crunching lurch that seemed to rack the brain and

twist the stomach. For a jarring few seconds. Hazzard’s linkfeed was interrupted; he was plunged into

blackness and, for just an instant, was back on his jackrack, hot, drenched with sweat, as other

command deck personnel shouted and screamed in the echoing close darkness around him.

Then the feed came back on-line. Still queasy—he hated field interface transits—he scanned the cascade

of data on his visual field. There were reports of disorientation, jacker shock, and obvious confusion…

but no damage, thank the Goddess, and no link dissociations.

“ Damn them!” cy-Tomlin’s voice said.

“As you were, Mid,” Pardoe warned. But his own voice was barely under control. Victor had popped

her drive field to further slow her lumbering mass just as she cut across the Indy’s bow. Vector drive

fields worked on the fabric of space-time, a true space drive; a kind of curdling of bent space rippled

along the interface between the inside of a deployed VDF and what lay outside. Though not dangerous if

encountered at low speeds, it was disorienting and could damage delicate electronics. At high relative

Greenberg, Martin H & Segriff, Larry - Guardsmen of Tomorrow.pdf

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika: