The City Who Fought Read online

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  EPILOGUE

  The City Who Fought

  Anne McCaffrey and S.M. Stirling

  A SCIENCE FICTION CLASSIC BACK IN PRINT!

  Simeon was a shell-person—the brain who ran Space Station SSS-900 on the fringes of human space. But things hadn’t been going too well lately, and he was more than a little discontented. Though normally he enjoyed his work, these days it seemed boring. To make matters worse, his long-time partner had just retired and he was having a hard time adjusting to his newly assigned brawn—a strong-willed woman named Channa Hap who seemed to feel it her duty to keep him in line. He’s buried himself in his favorite pastime—wargaming.

  Simeon’s hobby would find unexpected uses when the brutal Kolnari attack the nearby colony planet Bethel. Sheltering the colony’s refugees brought “the city” an invitation to serious trouble with Kolnari pirates. And only Simeon and Channa working together can save the city.

  ANNE McCAFFREY’S BRAINSHIP SERIES

  The Ship Who Sang

  PartnerShip with Margaret Ball

  The Ship Who Searched with Mercedes Lackey

  The City Who Fought with S.M. Stirling

  The Ship Who Won with Jody Lynn Nye

  The Ship Avenged by S.M. Stirling

  Brain Ship with Mercedes Lackey and Margaret Ball (omnibus)

  The Ship Who Saved the Worlds with Jody Lynn Nye (omnibus)

  The City and the Ship with S.M. Stirling (omnibus)

  ALSO BY ANNE McCAFFREY

  The Planet Pirates Series

  Sassinak with Elizabeth Moon

  Generation Warriors with Elizabeth Moon

  The Death of Sleep with Jody Lynn Nye

  The City Who Fought

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1993 by Bill Fawcett & Associates

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Book

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-9821-2610-0

  eISBN: 978-1-62579-864-0

  Cover art by Alan Pollack

  First printing, May 1994

  First trade paperback printing, May 2022

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2003027415

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Electronic Version by Baen Books

  www.baen.com

  PROLOGUE

  “How long?” Amos ben Sierra Nueva said desperately.

  “Another forty-five minutes, esteemed sir,” the technician answered in a voice flat with focused concentration.

  Amos touched the pickup in his ear and turned back to the low hills ahead. They were covered in pine forest, or had been, until about an hour ago. Now they were burning, a furnace of resin-fueled candles fifty meters high. The invaders had barred their own way with the blast of beam-fire from the aircraft, but they seemed lazily indifferent about inflicting casualties on their own forces. The Bethelite nobleman ground his teeth in fury at that lordly disdain; unfortunately, it seemed justified.

  For now. Most of the resistance to the Kolnari invasion had come from Bethel’s planetary constabulary, and the Guardians of the Temple. Those few who didn’t see the invasion as punishment for the sins of godless young Amos ben Sierra Nueva and his followers had, of course, resisted. The faithful had effectively offered their throats to the pirate knife. Sheer luck that Amos and those followers had been preparing even if their efforts had been made against the day when the Guardians came for them.

  “Everything is in place, my brother,” said the man beside Amos in the rear seat of the pickup. Joseph ben Said was a commoner—worse than that, a bastard from the slums of Keriss—but he had been the first of Amos’ followers, and had proved to be the most loyal.

  Not to mention certain skills, Amos reminded himself.

  “Take me forward to the bunker,” he said, and cut off Joseph’s protest with a brusque chop of his hand.

  The gunner behind the pintle-mounted launcher swayed as the driver gunned the fans and slid the vehicle down the dirt track. He was inexperienced; they all were. The Second Revelation had trained in secret with their hoarded weapons, preparing for the Second Exodus to Al Mina. Official Temple policy held there was no need to venture beyond Bethel when three centuries of valiant breeding left the Chosen still thin on the ground in the initial area of settlement. There had been no time to acquire much real skill with the tools of destruction. The measures had been insurance, really, in case the Elders actually were willing to use force to prevent the settlement of the Saffron system’s other habitable planet.

  Ahead, the fire throbbed and roared. The pines were a native variety; candlestick trees, they were called. They were explosively flammable this time of year, and the air was thick with the heavy resinous smoke. Dust spurted from under the car as they swung behind the bunker, just now thrown up with farming machines and covered with raw dirt. The driver backed and then let the vehicle settle on its flexible skirt, keeping the fans running and the gunner’s line of sight just over the top of the mound.

  “Good man,” Amos said, thumping him on the shoulder before he hopped down and ducked to enter the bunker.

  A display film had been tacked to one wall. It showed footage from a pickup located a kilometer down the road. Half a dozen men and women in coveralls and caps were talking into communicators or hovering over a schematic display on a rickety camp table. In the bunker, the air was full of a crackling tension, louder to the nerves than the burning forest was to the ears. Amos nodded to . . . the officer, he reminded himself. No longer friends and retainers, but warriors.

  “They are coming,” Rachel bint Damscus said.

  Her plain bony face was tightly impassive. She was an info-systems specialist, rare for a woman on Bethel, where most females held to traditional feminine careers like medicine or literature. Joseph made her a formal bow.

  “You are well, lady?” he said.

  She gave a curt nod, then turned back to Amos. “They hit the forest with some sort of indirect-fire incendiary weapon, and now they are advancing through it. Powered vehicles. Fusion-bubble neutrino signatures, fairly heavy ones.”

  “They probably do not know how common bad fires are here,” Amos said. He worked a tongue in a mouth gone dry. Bethel vehicles used stressed-storage batteries.

  Rachel was holding up well, better than he had expected. She had a violent temper, and he suspected a buried streak of hysteria. She was also a claustrophobe: the bunker would add that distress to her burdens. The more credit to her, for conquering her p
hobia.

  “They thought to mask their approach in the flames,” he said aloud.

  Their first ambush had killed several of the invader infantry. Even a few hours had shown how the strangers reacted to a challenge: strike back immediately with overwhelming power. He cleared his throat and asked calmly:

  “How far are they from the mine?”

  “Two kilometers and closing. Closing at twenty kph. Onscreen.”

  The view through the screen tacked to the wall trembled. That meant something was shaking the ground under the pickup, even though it was spiked to solid rock. Hills rose on either side ahead, everything on fire except for the narrow stream and the road beside it, down at the base of the massive granite slopes. Shapes were moving through the burning trees on the lower slopes. Dull-gleaming shapes, hard to make out against the background, as if the surfaces were adapting themselves, chameleon-fashion, as they moved. Low turtle-backed outlines, with long weapons jutting from their sloped forward plates, the barrels built up from coils or rings, some sort of wave-guide or electromagnetic launcher.

  One fighting vehicle pivoted. The muzzle flashed, bright even through the hot-iron glow of the fires. The viewscreen fogged slightly as a pickup was blasted into plasma, then cleared as the system compensated by spreading input from the others.

  “Well, that gives us a clue to the sensitivity of their detectors,” Joseph said. He leaned forward. “Everyone is out of there?”

  “Falling back to the launching ground. There is nobody within fifteen kilometers,” Rachel said. “We are closest.”

  “Do it, then,” Amos said.

  She touched a control surface. The screen flashed white and went blank. Half a second later an actinic glare flashed through the bunker, reflected in from the rear entrance but still bright enough to make their goggles darken protectively. Sound and shock followed in a few heartbeats: a roar like God returning in anger, an earthquake rumble through the soil, then a wave of heat and pressure making their ears pop.

  “So Keriss died,” Rachel said absently, to herself. “Tamik saw it. He said the flash was like the sword of God, and the waves a kilometer high when they broke over the Peninsula mountains.”

  “Everyone leave,” Amos said quietly, glancing down at the watch woven into his sleeve. There was nothing else to say. Rachel’s family had lived in Keriss, the capital city of Bethel. So had most of Amos’ surviving kindred, and Joseph’s, if he had any. “We will rendezvous in forty minutes at the shuttle.” He paused. “And, Rachel?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Well done. Very well done.”

  When they left the bunker, the pillar of cloud was already flattening out high in the stratosphere.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “SSS.” The sensor overwatch AI filtered a possible message out of the interstellar background and passed it through to the controller of Station SSS-900.

  “Hissing again, are we?” Simeon muttered absently at the subprogram and turned his attention back to the simulacrum.

  Napoleon had just pushed the British north of Nottingham. Wounded, exhausted soldiers sprawled across the fields where the defeated army camped, as the rain drained down, gray skies darkening over trampled muddy fields. Away across the rolling landscape fires still flickered, where dead men lay gaping around smashed cannon. The women were out with lanterns, looking for their husbands and sons.

  A dispatch rider came clattering up to Wellesley’s tent with news of the Jacobin uprisings in Birmingham and Manchester, and a landing of the Irish rebels. The big beak-nosed man stood in the open flap of the tent as the dripping militiaman saluted clumsily and handed over the dispatches, blinking in the driving rain.

  “The devil with it,” he muttered, turning to the map-table within and unfolding the heavy wax-sealed papers. “It’s too bad. If we’d won that last battle . . . if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Still, it was a damned near-run thing—a very near thing.”

  He looked up. “You are to inform His Majesty that he and the royal family must take ship for India immediately. These—” he extended the reports from his folding desk “—are for Viceroy Arnold in Calcutta.”

  I concede, the computer said.

  “Of course,” Simeon answered smugly.

  He switched his primary visual focus from simulation back to the lounge and looked down at the big holotable. An excellent model for use in war-gaming, the map of England was scattered with unit symbols. Finer and finer detail could be obtained by magnifying individual sectors—right down to the animate models of soldiers and horses. Or tanks and artillery, for some of the other games. He focused: on a horse tiredly nipping at its neighbor on the picket line, on the stubbled gap-toothed face of a sentry yawning.

  “SSS.”

  “What is that?” Simeon asked.

  The answer floated up into his awareness from the peripherals; tightbeam signal, modulated subspace waves, picked up by one of the passive buoys out on the fringes of the system. A subroutine had flagged it as possibly interesting.

  Hmmm, he thought. Odd. It might just be the last fading noise from a leaking mini-singularity about to go pop. The things tended to cluster in this area, which was full of third-generation stars and black holes, though this one tasted like a signal. The problem with that was that there was nothing much out that way; nothing listed as inhabited for better than two hundred lights. Certainly no traffic into the sphere of Space Station Simeon-900-X’s operations. He would have to see if anything more came of it. Presumably if someone was calling, they would try again.

  Idly, he ran a checklist of station functions. Life-support was nominal, of course; any variation of that was red-flagged. One hundred seventy-two craft of various sorts from the liner Altair to barge-tugs were currently docked. Twenty-seven megatons of various mineral powders were in transit, in storage, or undergoing processing in SSS-900-X’s attendant fabrication modules. Two new tugs were under construction in the yard. A civic election was underway, with Anita de Chong-Markowitz leading for council-rep in station sector three, the entertainment decks. Death in the Twenty-First was still billing as most popular holo of the month. Simeon sneered mentally, with a wistful overtone. Historical dramas were impossible for a serious scholar to watch because the manufacturers would not do their research.

  It was not necessary to investigate much more in detail. With the connectors, shellperson Simeon was SSS-900-X. Little awareness remained of the stunted body inside its titanium shell in the central column of the lounge. He was the station, and any weakness or failure was, like pain, intense and personal. As far as his kinesthetic sense was concerned, he was a metal tube a kilometer long, with two huge globes attached on either end.

  The Altair was in. Simeon had docked the incoming ship with his usual efficiency but without his usual close scrutiny. He deliberately turned his attention away from disembarking passengers, refusing to study their faces, especially the faces of the women.

  Radon’s replacement as Simeon’s brawn was on this ship, and all he knew was her work record and her name. Channa Hap. Probably from Hawking Alpha Proxima Station, Hap being a common surname for those born in that ancient and wealthy community. He wasn’t entirely sure. He’d fought Radon’s retirement too hard to have much personal interest in his replacement. All right, I was sulking, he told himself. Time to get with the program. He’d established a subroutine to trash the applications of replacements. That hadn’t been personal, merely a ploy.

  He hadn’t wanted her, but they were stuck with each other now.

  Liners docked at the north polar aspect of the two linked globes that made up the station. The tube was a kilometer long and half that wide, more than enough for the replenishment feeds and a debarkation lounge fancy enough to satisfy the station’s collective vanity: twenty meters on a side and fifteen high, lined with murals, walled and floored with exotic space-mined stone, with information kiosks and everything else a visitor needed to feel at home.

  “I’m Channa Hap,” a
woman said to one of the kiosks. “I need directions to Control Central.”

  So that’s her. Long high-cheekboned face, medium-length curling dark hair.

  “You are expected, Ms. Hap,” the terminal said. It had a mellow, commanding voice synthed from several of Simeon’s favorite actors, some of whom dated back to the twenty-fourth century. “Do you wish transportation?”

  “If there’s no hurry, I’ll walk. Might as well get used to the new home.”

  “This way, please.”

  She nodded. Simeon froze the visual and studied her; tall, athletic. Dressed plainly in a coverall, but she had presence. Nice figure, too, if you liked subtle curves and rolling muscle. A fox.

  In an amazingly short time the door-chime signaled a request for admittance. Feeling as nervous as he had when meeting his first brawn, Simeon said, “Come,” and the door swished open.

  Channa entered. He closed in on the viewer to what he thought of as normal conversational distance. That was an advantage sometimes, since softshells couldn’t get to their psychologically comfortable distance with you. She had delicate, clear-cut features and earnest dark eyes, and the curly black hair was swept back from her face in a disciplined no-nonsense fashion. A vid-show heroine. Perfect! he thought. I’ll get things off on the right foot. He switched on a screen with his own “face”—the way he’d imagined it, ruggedly handsome with a tan, a Heidelberg dueling scar, level gray eyes, close-cropped blond hair and a Centauri Jets fan cap—and spoke aloud: