The silent war book iii.., p.1
The Silent War: Book III of The Asteroid Wars, page 1
THE
SILENT WAR
THE ASTEROID WARS BY BEN BOVA
The Precipice
The Rock Rats
The Silent War
OTHER TOR BOOKS BY BEN BOVA
As on a Darkling Plain
The Astral Mirror
Battle Station
The Best of the Nebulas (editor)
Challenges
Colony
Cyberbooks
Escape Plus
Gremlins Go Home (with Gordon R. Dickson)
Jupiter
The Kinsman Saga
The Multiple Man
Orion
Orion Among the Stars
Orion and the Conqueror
Orion in the Dying Time
Out of the Sun
Peacekeepers
Privateers
Prometheans
Saturn
Star Peace: Assured Survival
The Starcrossed
Tales of the Grand Tour
Test of Fire
To Fear the Light (with A. J. Austin)
To Save the Sun (with A. J. Austin)
The Trikon Deception (with Bill Pogue)
Triumph
Vengeance of Orion
Venus
Voyagers
Voyagers II: The Alien Within
Voyagers III: Star Brothers
The Winds of Altair
THE
SILENT WAR
Book III of The Asteroid Wars
BEN BOVA
A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK
NEW YORK
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This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
THE SILENT WAR: BOOK III OF THE ASTEROID WARS
Copyright © 2004 by Ben Bova
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
This book is printed on acid-free paper.
Edited by Patrick Nielsen Hayden
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Bova, Ben, 1932-
The silent war / Ben Bova.—1st ed.
p. cm.—(The asteroid wars ; bk. 3)
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN 0-312-84878-1 (alk. paper)
EAN 978-0312-84878-1
1. Mines and mineral resources—Fiction. 2. Space colonies—Fiction. 3. Space warfare—Fiction. 4. Asteroids—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.O84S55 2004
813'.54—dc22
2003071145
First Edition: May 2004
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
TITLE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
ASTEROID 67-046
SIX YEARS EARLIER
SELENE: ASTRO CORPORATION HEADQUARTERS
TORCH SHIP NAUTILUS
SELENE: WINTER SOLSTICE PARTY
SELENE: HOTEL LUNA RESIDENTIAL SUITE
EARTH: CHOTA MONASTERY, NEPAL
HABITAT CHRYSALIS
HELL CRATER
LUNAR CABLE CAR 502
MARE NUBIUM
LOGISTICS SHIP ROEBUCK
SELENE: ASTRO CORPORATION HEADQUARTERS
HUMPHRIES MANSION
ASTEROID VESTA
HUMPHRIES’S DREAMS
HABITAT CHRYSALIS
HUMPHRIES MANSION
TORCH SHIP STARPOWER III
SEVEN MONTHS LATER
HUMPHRIES MANSION
HABITAT CHRYSALIS
ASTEROID VESTA
TORCH SHIP SAMARKAND
MATHILDA II
HUMPHRIES MANSION
ASTRO CORPORATION HEADQUARTERS
SELENE: EARTHVIEW RESTAURANT
SELENE: FACTORY NUMBER ELEVEN
ORE FREIGHTER SCRANTON
COMMAND SHIP ANTARES
TORCH SHIP SAMARKAND
ASTRO CORPORATION HEADQUARTERS
HOTEL LUNA: RESIDENTIAL SUITE
ASTRO CORPORATION COMMAND CENTER
ASTEROID 73-241
ADMIRAL WANAMAKER’S OFFICE
HABITAT CHRYSALIS
LAST RITES
ORE CARRIER STARLIGHT
SELENE NEWS MEDIA CENTER
DATA BANK: SOLAR FLARE
WEATHER FORECAST
SHINING MOUNTAIN BASE
COMMAND SHIP SAMARKAND
SELENE: ASTRO COMMAND CENTER
ASTRO CORPORATION HEADQUARTERS
TORCH SHIP ELSINORE
SELENE: STORAGE CENTER FOURTEEN
COMMAND SHIP SAMARKAND
SHINING MOUNTAIN BASE
TORCH SHIP ELSINORE
HUMPHRIES MANSION
SHINING MOUNTAIN BASE
HABITAT CHRYSALIS
HUMPHRIES MANSION
SHINING MOUNTAIN BASE
ORE CARRIER CROMWELL
HUMPHRIES MANSION
SHINING MOUNTAIN BASE
HUMPHRIES MANSION: ON THE ROOF
LUNAR HOPPER
BRUSHFIRE
FLIGHT PLANS
SELENE: LEVELSEVEN
CRASH LANDING
ASTRO CORPORATION COMMAND CENTER
BALLISTIC ROCKET
ASTEROID VESTA
ARMSTRONG SPACEPORT
COMMAND SHIP SAMARKAND
ASTEROID VESTA
COMMAND SHIP SAMARKAND
SELENE: DOUGLAS STAVENGER’S QUARTERS
TORCH SHIP ELSINORE
HABITAT CHRYSALIS
TORCH SHIP ELSINORE
SELENE: PEACE CONFERENCE
FINAL ADJUSTMENTS
ASTEROID 67-046
To the memory of Stephen Jay Gould,
scientist, writer, baseball fan,
and an inspiration to all thinking people
Everything is very simple in war, but
the simplest thing is difficult. . . . War is
the province of uncertainty; three-fourths
of the things on which action in war is
based lie hidden in the fog of a greater or
lesser certainty.
—Carl von Clausewitz,
On War
THE
SILENT WAR
ASTEROID 67-046
“I was a soldier,” he said. “Now I am a priest. You may call me Dorn.”
Elverda Apacheta could not help staring at him. She had seen cyborgs before, but this…person seemed more machine than man. She felt a chill ripple of contempt along her veins. How could a human being allow his body to be disfigured so?
He was not tall; Elverda herself stood several centimeters taller than he. His shoulders were quite broad, though; his torso thick and solid. The left side of his face was engraved metal, as was the entire top of his head: like a skullcap made of finest etched steel.
Dorn’s left hand was prosthetic. He made no attempt to disguise it. Beneath the rough fabric of his shabby tunic and threadbare trousers, how much more of him was metal and electrical machinery? Tattered though his clothing was, his calf-length boots were polished to a high gloss.
“A priest?” asked Martin Humphries. “Of what church? What order?”
The half of Dorn’s lips that could move made a slight curl. A smile or a sneer, Elverda could not tell.
“I will show you to your quarters,” said Dorn. His voice was a low rumble, as if it came from the belly of a beast. It echoed faintly off the walls of rough-hewn rock.
Humphries looked briefly surprised. He was not accustomed to having his questions ignored. Elverda watched his face. Humphries was as handsome as regeneration therapies and cosmetic nanomachines could make a person appear: chiseled features, straight of spine, lean of limb, athletically flat midsection. Yet his cold gray eyes were hard, merciless. And there was a faint smell of corruption about him, Elverda thought. As if he were dead inside and already beginning to rot.
The tension between the two men seemed to drain the energy from Elverda’s aged body. “It has been a long journey,” she said. “I am very tired. I would welcome a hot shower and a long nap.”
“Before you see it?” Humphries snapped.
“It has taken us more than a week to get here. We can wait a few hours more.” Inwardly she marveled at her own words. Once she would have been all fiery excitement. Have the years taught you patience? No, she realized. Only weariness.
“Not me!” Humphries said. Turning to Dorn, “Take me to it now. I’ve waited long enough. I want to see it now.”
Dorn’s eyes, one as brown as Elverda’s own, the other a red electronic
“Well?” Humphries demanded.
“I am afraid, sir, that the chamber is sealed for the next twelve hours. It will be imposs—”
“Sealed? By whom? On whose authority?”
“The chamber is self-controlled. Whoever made the artifact installed the controls, as well.”
“No one told me about that,” said Humphries.
Dorn replied, “Your quarters are down this corridor.”
He turned almost like a solid block of metal, shoulders and hips together, head unmoving on those wide shoulders, and started down the central corridor. Elverda fell in step alongside his metal half, still angered at his self-desecration. Yet despite herself, she thought of what a challenge it would be to sculpt him. If I were younger, she told herself. If I were not so close to death. Human and inhuman, all in one strangely fierce figure.
Humphries came up on Dorn’s other side, his face red with barely suppressed anger.
They walked down the corridor in silence, Humphries’s weighted shoes clicking against the uneven rock floor. Dorn’s boots made hardly any noise at all. Half-machine he may be, Elverda thought, but once in motion he moves like a panther.
The asteroid’s inherent gravity was so slight that Humphries needed the weighted footgear to keep himself from stumbling ridiculously. Elverda, who had spent most of her long life in low-gravity environments, felt completely at home. The corridor they were walking through was actually a tunnel, shadowy and mysterious, or perhaps a natural chimney vented through the metallic body by escaping gases eons ago when the asteroid was still molten. Now it was cold, chill enough to make Elverda shudder. The rough ceiling was so low she wanted to stoop, even though the rational side of her mind knew it was not necessary.
Soon, though, the walls smoothed out and the ceiling grew higher. Humans had extended the tunnel, squaring it with laser precision. Doors lined both walls now and the ceiling glowed with glareless, shadowless light. Still she hugged herself against the chill that the two men did not seem to notice.
They stopped at a wide double door. Dorn tapped out the entrance code on the panel set into the wall, and the doors slid open.
“Your quarters, sir,” he said to Humphries. “You may, of course, change the privacy code to suit yourself.”
Humphries gave a curt nod and strode through the open doorway. Elverda got a glimpse of a spacious suite, carpeting on the floor and hologram windows on the walls.
Humphries turned in the doorway to face them. “I expect you to call for me in twelve hours,” he said to Dorn, his voice hard.
“Eleven hours and fifty-seven minutes,” Dorn replied.
Humphries’s nostrils flared and he slid the double doors shut.
“This way.” Dorn gestured with his human hand. “I’m afraid your quarters are not as sumptuous as Mr. Humphries’s.”
Elverda said, “I am his guest. He is paying all the bills.”
“You are a great artist. I have heard of you.”
“Thank you.”
“For the truth? That is not necessary.”
I was a great artist, Elverda said to herself. Once. Long ago. Now I am an old woman waiting for death.
Aloud, she asked, “Have you seen my work?”
Dorn’s voice grew heavier. “Only holograms. Once I set out to see The Rememberer for myself, but—other matters intervened.”
“You were a soldier then?”
“Yes. I have only been a priest since coming to this place.”
Elverda wanted to ask him more, but Dorn stopped before a blank door and opened it for her. For an instant she thought he was going to reach for her with his prosthetic hand. She shrank away from him.
“I will call for you in eleven hours and fifty-six minutes,” he said, as if he had not noticed her revulsion.
“Thank you.”
He turned away, like a machine pivoting.
“Wait,” Elverda called. “Please—how many others are here? Everything seems so quiet.”
“There are no others. Only the three of us.”
“But—”
“I am in charge of the security brigade. I ordered the others of my command to go back to our spacecraft and wait there.”
“And the scientists? The prospector family that found this asteroid?”
“They are in Mr. Humphries’s spacecraft, the one you arrived in,” said Dorn. “Under the protection of my brigade.”
Elverda looked into his eyes. Whatever burned in them, she could not fathom.
“Then we are alone here?”
Dorn nodded solemnly. “You and me—and Mr. Humphries, who pays all the bills.” The human half of his face remained as immobile as the metal. Elverda could not tell if he were trying to be humorous or bitter.
“Thank you,” she said. He turned away and she closed the door.
Her quarters consisted of a single room, comfortably warm but hardly larger than the compartment on the ship they had come in. Elverda saw that her meager travel bag was already sitting on the bed, her worn old drawing computer resting in its travel-smudged case on the desk. She stared at the computer case as if it were accusing her. I should have left it home, she thought. I will never use it again.
A small utility robot, hardly more than a glistening drum of metal and six gleaming arms folded like a praying mantis’s, stood mutely in the farthest corner. Elverda studied it for a moment. At least it was entirely a machine; not a self-mutilated human being. To take the most beautiful form in the universe and turn it into a hybrid mechanism, a travesty of humanity. Why did he do it? So he could be a better soldier? A more efficient killing machine?
And why did he send all the others away? she asked herself while she opened the travel bag. As she carried her toiletries to the narrow alcove of the lavatory, a new thought struck her. Did he send them away before he saw the artifact, or afterward? Has he even seen it? Perhaps…
Then she saw her reflection in the mirror above the wash basin. Her heart sank. Once she had been called regal, stately, a goddess made of copper. Now she looked withered, dried up, bone thin, her face a geological map of too many years of living, her flight coveralls hanging limply on her emaciated frame.
You are old, she said to her image. Old and aching and tired.
It is the long trip, she told herself. You need to rest. But the other voice in her mind laughed scornfully. You’ve done nothing but rest for the entire time it’s taken to reach this piece of rock. You are ready for the permanent rest; why deny it?
She had been teaching at the University of Selene, the Moon being the closest she could get to Earth after a long lifetime of living in low-gravity environments. Close enough to see the world of her birth, the only world of life and warmth in the solar system, the only place where a person could walk out in the sunshine and feel its warmth soaking your bones, smell the fertile earth nurturing its bounty, feel a cool breeze plucking at your hair.
But she had separated herself from Earth permanently. She had stood on the ice crags of Europa’s frozen ocean; from an orbiting spacecraft she had watched the surging clouds of Jupiter swirl their overpowering colors; she had carved the kilometer-long rock of The Rememberer. But she could no longer stand in the village of her birth, at the edge of the Pacific’s booming surf, and watch the soft white clouds form shapes of imaginary animals.
Her creative life was long finished. She had lived too long; there were no friends left, and she had never had a family. There was no purpose to her life, no reason to do anything except go through the motions and wait. She refused the rejuvenation therapies that were offered her. At the university she was no longer truly working at her art but helping students who had the fires of inspiration burning fresh and hot inside them. Her life was one of vain regrets for all the things she had not accomplished, for all the failures she could recall. Failures at love; those were the bitterest. She was praised as the solar system’s greatest artist: the sculptress of The Rememberer, the creator of the first great ionospheric painting, The Virgin of the Andes. She was respected, but not loved. She felt empty, alone, barren. She had nothing to look forward to; absolutely nothing.
Then Martin Humphries swept into her existence. A lifetime younger, bold, vital, even ruthless, he stormed her academic tower with the news that an alien artifact had been discovered deep in the Asteroid Belt.
