A Forest of Stars - Kevin J. Anderson [161]
“Compy scouts deployed, sir,” said an officer. Rossia could never keep track of the confusing ranks or insignias.
The green priest went to the nearest windowport to watch the fast ships race ahead of the battlegroup and skim over Osquivel’s poles. The robot-guided Remoras were no more than tiny dots against the veils of mist.
Lanyan said, “Make sure they’re dispersed deep enough into the cloud layers to give us sufficient warning of hydrogue proximity. Our remote sensors never seem to work right, so let’s hope these compies can do a better job.”
The rugged Soldier compies were designed to survive at high pressures and temperatures, able to go deeper than any human scout could. If necessary, the compy scouts would keep descending until Osquivel’s atmosphere crushed their vessels, and they would continue transmitting until the end.
“Green priest, tell the Mars command center we’re beginning Phase One.” Lanyan impatiently gestured to the potted treeling.
Rossia blinked his round eyes, then touched the scaled trunk and spoke again through telink. Every other green priest in telink received the message simultaneously—at the WhisperPalace on Earth, at the base on Mars, on warships across the Spiral Arm, and back on Theroc.
“The Chairman says to go ahead.”
Lanyan stood on his bridge, drawing deep breaths. Finally, satisfied, he nodded. “All right, prepare the encounter vessel and summon Wing Commander Brindle to the launch deck. Let’s give diplomacy one last chance—and then, be prepared for anything.”
84
BASIL WENCESLAS
In the command-and-control center at the Mars EDF base, the Hansa Chairman paced, waiting for things to happen at Osquivel.
He wore a business suit not because he had anyone to impress but because that was how he felt most comfortable. He glanced expectantly at the green priest who had remained on Mars to send and receive messages from General Lanyan’s battlegroup.
“They are in position, preparing for the initial phase,” Yarrod reported after consulting his treeling. “The ships will begin taking their places according to plan. No contact yet with the hydrogues.”
“Tell them to proceed,” Basil said, knowing it would now take an hour or more before the next significant event. And then—maybe—all hell would break loose.
So far, the operation had been a smoothly coordinated military drill: the new Soldier compies, the green priest communicators, the well-trained EDF soldiers. Everything seemed perfect. But Basil was never lulled into complacency.
Though he had not wanted to discourage his advisers, Basil had realized from the start that sending a man down in an armored diving bell to open negotiations with these enemies was a token gesture at best. The hydrogues had already proved their malicious alienness. Civilized diplomacy was not effective under such circumstances. Still, didn’t they need to make the attempt, for the sake of history?
“Keep me posted,” he said, and left the command-and-control center.
He walked down the corridors. A ubiquitous grit covered the walls, and the air had a disagreeable rusty smell from Mars’s iron oxides. To Basil, the base always seemed to hold a permeating chill, though the thermostats insisted that the ambient temperature was exactly what he was accustomed to. He didn’t believe them.
Amidst the bustle of activity, he was glad to see all the soldiers going about their duties on a heightened alert status without descending to chaos or disorganization. He was proud of them.
Inside the base supply depot, cargo haulers dropped from large transports in orbit to the crater openings, delivering food, equipment, and other matériel. Daily business went on even as the big assault was staged in a far-off system. Basil watched distractedly as the last loads were removed from a delivery shuttle. A small compy emerged carrying a final container