Bright Light. Ian Douglas

than once a couple of decades ago when he’d commanded the America battlegroup. A ship captain observing a battle light-seconds or even light-minutes away in fact was looking into the past. The tactical situation could be “cleared” only by getting closer … and receiving more up-to-the-moment intelligence.

      Of course, the problem was even worse for would-be micromanagers watching from almost a full light-hour away. Gutierrez likely had already moved in close and launched her deadly attack … or she was about to, and there was no way that Koenig or his staff back on Earth could deliver up-to-the-second orders or advice. The fog of war had always been a problem for commanders on the battlefield; that murk became impenetrable when you added the dimension of time, and the difficulties created by communications limited by the speed of light.

      “We have other warships across the solar system,” Admiral Armitage told him. “The Essex, the New York, and the Kauffman are leaving SupraQuito now, along with their support groups. Varyag, Putin, San Francisco, and Champlain have just left Mars orbit. Komet will be pulling out of Ceres in another ten minutes. We’ve sent emergency recalls to eighteen vessels on High Guard patrol, out at Neptune orbit …”

      “Bottom line,” Koenig said, waving a hand in curt dismissal. “How long before we can set up an effective defensive line between Earth and those … things?”

      “The defensive line will take several hours to establish, Mr. President. The first ships—a Pan-European carrier group transiting from Jupiter to Earth—should join the America within the next twenty minutes. In another two hours, we may be able to muster another fifteen vessels.”

      “Our time or theirs?” Koenig thoughtclicked an in-head icon, bringing up a 3-D display filling a quarter of the Oval Office with translucent, glowing images. There were dozens of military vessels scattered across the solar system, from the Mercury power facilities tucked in close to the sun to High Guard patrols scattered through the Kuiper Belt, maintaining a watch against infalling comets. America and a red icon marking the alien intruders hung near Jupiter’s orbit, though that gas giant was currently on the other side of the sun.

      The problem, as always, was that Sol System was so freaking big. Even with near-c velocities and high-G accelerations, it would take time, far too much time, to assemble them all in one place.

      “The task force will join America at 1805 hours, fleet time,” Armitage told him.

      “So, basically,” Koenig said slowly, “it’s up to America to hold the Rosetters where they are until the others get there.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Koenig shook his head slowly. “God help us all.” He glanced at Whitney. “Anything from Tsiolkovsky?”

      The chief of staff shook his head. “Nothing good, Mr. President. I talked to Dr. Lawrence on the AI Center staff. They say there’s no response from the system. It’s like Konstantin isn’t in there at all.”

      “That makes no sense,” Armitage said. “Where would it go?”

      “Konstantin must have created a bolt-hole for himself,” Koenig said. “The Rosetters appeared to be … feeding, for lack of a better word, on the digital uploads of the various Sh’daar beings out at Kapteyn’s Star, and that would include their AIs operating inside their virtual reality. Konstantin must have had an escape hatch in case the Rosetters came here. And he’s smart enough that we’re not going to find it.”

      “So it’s hiding from the Rosetters, you think, sir?”

      “Almost certainly. Let’s just hope they can’t find that hiding place either.”

       Bridge

      TC/USNA CVS America

       Outer Asteroid Belt

       2053 hours, TFT

      Captain Gutierrez studied the inflow of data with grim determination. “How much longer before Task Force Ritter gets here?”

      “They’re within extended launch range now, Captain,” Commander Mallory told her. She could see the computer graphics unfolding within an in-head window—the advancing wall of red light marking the Consciousness microcraft, the tiny knot of oncoming human ships, the retreating clusters of fighters. “Twelve minutes …”

      “Sensors!”

      “Yes, Captain!”

      “How big is that thing? How massive?”

      “The cloud is roughly half an astronomical unit across, Captain,” Lieutenant Scahill replied. “Mass … it’s tough to tell when it’s that diffuse, but I’m guessing something on the order of two times ten to the thirty grams.”

      “That’s as big as Jupiter!”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      And how the hell did you fight something as massive as the gas giant Jupiter?

      Gutierrez shifted her attention back to the fighter screen, and to the teeming swarm of microcraft beyond. She was juggling a number of variables—maintaining distance from the leading edge of the cloud but moving slowly enough away from that cloud that the fighters could catch up. The fighters, too, were engaged in a kind of complex three-dimensional dance, continuing to fire nuclear warheads in front of the cloud, causing it to slow, to spread out, to break into separate masses, while staying ahead of the swarm and closing with the carrier. One squadron, VFA-190, the Ghost Riders, had already caught up with America and was currently recovering back aboard.

      Despite her message to Earth, Gutierrez had not yet loosed the one ace she had hidden up her sleeve. Once she began firing nano-D at the approaching alien cloud, that region of space would become deadly for America’s fighters, and she wanted to get her people back on board before initiating the new tactics.

      It seemed more and more likely, however, that she was not going to have the chance. America’s sensors were already picking up incoming fireflies slipping past the carrier’s outer hull. They didn’t appear to be doing any damage; they weren’t disassembling America’s hull or otherwise posing an immediate threat to the ship.

      But they were proof that the human defensive force was losing the race.

      Another fighter, a Black Knight with VFA-215, flared into an incandescent blossom.

      “Weapons officer!” Gutierrez ordered. “Ready two disassembler rounds for immediate railgun launch!”

      “First two rounds are loaded and ready,” Commander Kevin Daly, America’s new weapons officer, replied. “At your command …”

      “Target inside that cloud. Have them detonate at least half a million kilometers beyond the farthest Starblade.”

      “Aye, aye, Captain. We’re locked and loaded.”

      “Fire!”

      The star carrier mounted two magnetic-launch railguns running most of the length of the kilometer-long vessel’s slender spine, emerging in side-by-side ports at the center of the broad, massive shield cap forming the vessel’s prow. The ports opened … and two one-ton projectiles hurtled into space, accelerated in an instant to nearly 1 percent of the speed of light.

      Recoil nudged the immense carrier … hard. Gutierrez’s seat jerked back, yanking her along. “Helm! Compensate!”

      “Got it, ma’am …”

      “Reload!”

      “Reloading!”

      “CAG! Pass the word to our fighters to lay down everything they have left around the periphery of that cloud.”

      “Captain? …”

      “I want to force it to move through the center.”

      “Aye, aye,