We Are Legion (We Are Bob)
Book 4: Chapter 7: The Battle of Newholme

Claude

July 2334

Newholme Colony

I examined the battle status graphic, searching for weaknesses. Commander Hobart stood at parade rest, with that peculiar ability of the military to just go into mental hibernation when waiting. I found it ironic that he did a better impression of a machine than I would ever manage. I could leave my manny parked under AMI control, but that would be cheating.

“I think we’re covered, Commander.” I shifted to face him, and he came to life.

“Then we’re ready to go.” Hobart touched the emblem on his chest. “Miller, commence operation.”

I suppressed a snicker. Apparently without any irony, the Newholme military had adopted a comms system very similar to TNG. I’d questioned Hobart about it without being obvious—I hope—and he’d displayed no knowledge of the existence of Star Trek, let alone of the blatant borrowing. No double-chirp, though. That would have been too much.

Lieutenant Miller, somewhere in the vast maze that was the Newholme military, would now be giving orders and activating equipment. As always when I took the time to think about it, I found myself mildly surprised at the size of the military presence in the Gamma Pavonis system. Of course, Newholme was founded when we were still not sure if the Others’ threat was over, and the attitude had stuck. Maybe in a few more generations it would fade, but for now, Newholme society was like a porcupine perpetually on full alert.

Today, we would be going up against the Starfleet incursion in the system. Starfleet had taken over the local relay station and one of the two space-based autofactories, then contacted Newholme to negotiate an agreement. From other negotiations with Starfleet, we had a pretty good idea of what they wanted: agreement in principle that humans and replicants should go their separate ways; agreement that there would be no contact with pre-industrial species; and agreement that interaction with post-industrial species would be kept to a minimum to avoid cultural contamination.

In the face of it, the deal points didn’t sound like much. In return for nothing except a bunch of signatures, essentially, Starfleet would hand back control of the equipment. Except that no matter how you phrased it, it was still extortion. Humans had never taken extortion well at best, and Newholme society came nowhere near to at best. They hadn’t even bothered to respond.

“Three minutes,” Miller’s voice said from midair. Hobart nodded in satisfaction, still at parade rest. As I watched, the little icons crawled across the graphic as the military units approached their targets.

“You have one hour to reacquire the space station, Claude,” he said to me. This wasn’t news to either of us; it was just Hobart making what he no doubt thought of as conversation. “The nuclear device will be put in place immediately, pending results.”

“Understood, Commander. I doubt you’ll need the nuke. My understanding is that failure on our part will result in a self-destruct.”

Hobart smiled but didn’t reply.

The assaults were timed so that we would intercept the autofactory and space station at the same moment. We wanted Starfleet’s attention to be divided. Not that it would make a ton of difference, but every little bit helped.

“No sign of resistance yet,” Miller said.

“Odd.” Hobart frowned. “They’ve had control of the autofactory for two days now. Shouldn’t they have been able to construct at least a few of your busters by now?”

“Yes, Commander. And they should have launched—”

“Bogeys detected,” Miller interjected.

“That’s more like it.” Hobart tapped his emblem. “Details, please.”

“Busters, from the look of it. Twenty. Straight attack vector. No subtlety.”

Hobart gave me a perplexed look. “You gents tend to be tricky as a rule. But that sounds like the maximum they could have built in the available time. Any chance there’s a fake of some kind?” ℝä𝐍ỘВĚȘ

“I don’t see how, Commander. You’re right about the numbers. This looks more like a last-ditch effort or a simple act of defiance. I’d have waited longer, to get our forces closer together.”

“Amateurs,” Hobart muttered.

Miller’s voice supplied updates every few seconds in a flat, unemotional tone.

“Units engaging.

“First wave, enemy casualties fifty percent. Second wave engaging.

“Second wave through, only two enemy units still extant. Deploying spikes … Field is now clear.”

Well, that was it. Unless Starfleet had a Kree battleship up their sleeve, we had a clear path to the target. “Last chance, Commander. We might still save the autofactory.”

He shook his head. “Not worth it. Too much risk of buried malware. Even your ‘Skippies’ couldn’t guarantee a total cleansing. We’ll rebuild.”

And the fact that it was the autofactory technically owned by the Bobiverse was undoubtedly a factor. I wondered if they’d have been so quick to write it off if it had been the Newholme-owned equipment.

At that moment, a harsh buzzer sound shattered the silence, and Miller’s voice announced, “Space station detonation. Not our action. Appears to be a self-destruct.”

“Crap,” I said. I turned to the Commander. “I’ll examine the logs, and maybe we’ll learn enough to avoid this next time. Your backup ready?”

He shook his head. “Twenty-four hours from go-live. We didn’t feel we could wait. We have individual small SCUT units with the necessary range, as I’m sure you do, but not enough to maintain full connectivity. We’re essentially isolated from the rest of the UFS for a day.” Hobart gave a humorless, perfunctory smile. “No big deal from a practical point of view, but you know the Big Heads will have a collective fit. Can’t block commerce and all that tripe.”

“Yup.” I rolled my eyes. “That’s okay, Commander. I think we’re already at max doghouse. This won’t add anything.”

Commander Hobart gave me a nod, then turned away and began giving orders to Miller. I took that as my cue and headed for the exit.

I normally kept this manny at the Newholme capitol, a convenient location for interacting with the government or catching transit if I needed to go into town. However, knowing how this engagement might end, I’d decided to plan for getting the manny off-planet. Howard had warned me that the very human tendency to want a scapegoat was making life uncomfortable for in-system Bobs everywhere.

My assets, those that were liquid anyway, had already been transferred via inter-system banking, in transactions that couldn’t be unwound. My physical assets were already heading out to the Oort by various paths. Once I reached my base there, I could work out my next step.

As soon as I stepped out of the building, one of my cargo drones landed in front of me. Without breaking stride, I loaded myself in and ordered the drone to take off. I figured I had half an hour at the most before the government—the Big Heads, as local slang called them—confiscated or nationalized (or whatever euphemism you used for grabbed) my assets.

It was funny, but ever since the war of independence on Poseidon, there’d been an unspoken agreement in the Bobiverse to not publish or otherwise publicize the existence of or plans for SUDDAR cloaking. I guess the mutual distrust had already been sown before Starfleet started inflating it. Or maybe their attitude was born of that distrust.

The bottom line, though, was that once I got my equipment off-planet, they had no chance of finding it.

It turned out I’d been a bit of a pessimist. It took almost three hours before an executive order was issued to “secure” all Bobiverse in-system assets, pending any assignment of legal liability. The order came with instructions for immediate action by the military and financial sector. It would take the suits most of a day to unwind the various blinds and dummy corps I’d set up in the last couple of days, at which point they’d find nothing but lint.

The military aspect was a more immediate concern. Two squadrons pulled away from the Lagrange naval bases, accelerating at military-level G’s for my last known position and vector. Unfortunately for them, I’d already changed direction several times, so I was not only not at the projected position, I also didn’t have a vector that was radial to it. Space was alive with SUDDAR pings, all sliding silently past my cloak.

It took only a minute for Commander Hobart to come online. “Claude Johansson, you are under military arrest, per executive order of the Big—er, of the Newholme Council. Cease acceleration and surrender yourself for boarding.”

I spared a moment to chuckle at Hobart’s almost faux pas. But of course, to respond would be to show my position. The commander was doomed to a frustrating day of explaining to the Big Heads why he’d come up empty-handed.

I formatted an email and fired it off to Bill, via my own SCUT-enabled relay. Not that he needed more headaches, but this was part of the big picture, and would probably be replicated in other systems.

I received a reply within seconds. No, not mils. Seconds. He was that busy.

Thanks for the info, Claude. Sadly, you’re probably right about other systems trying the same thing. But I’ll give any potentially affected Bobs the heads-up. Nice move with the financial assets, by the way.

I smiled, then sat back and stared into space. One way or another, I was probably finished in this system. Even if they decided they didn’t need to sue me, I’d have a hard time arguing that I hadn’t heard the commander, and that all my chess moves were just normal business.

Well, what the hell. I’d been stationary too long. Mario and his crew were finding interesting things out beyond the Others’ system. Maybe I’d join up and do my part to make known space a bigger place.