The Pentagon War

by

Roger M. Wilcox

(Originally begun on November 1, 1980)

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4
chapter 5 | chapter 6 | chapter 7 | chapter 8
chapter 9 | chapter 10 | chapter 11 | chapter 12
chapter 13 | chapter 14 | chapter 15 | chapter 16
chapter 17 | epilog


— CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Zero —


UV Ceti's pale red-orange light bathed their skins, and the observation room, with the same eerie glow that must have greeted Arnold Hasselberg seventy-eight years earlier. They were still slowing into an orbit after having been revived, the engines producing a comfortable 0.8g of deceleration. On one communications console, the repeated bleeps from a radiobeacon, placed in the system decades ago by investigators, warned all who listened to the dire threat from drifting chunks of a former planet — and of a tiny hole in space.




And that was when the typing urge struck Torra Zorra again, a hundred times harder than it had in Human-Centauri space.

It wheeled at a lightning pace to the closest keyboard, not having to say a word. Ken and Jennifer ran after it as hard as they could. The digits of three of its four hands flew across the keys in a blur, clacking out the sentences: "Arnold here.  Thank goodness you've all arrived!  It's so much easier to talk to you when you're up close."

"Um, hi," Ken answered, not sure which direction he should be speaking.

"Can you hear us?" Jennifer asked.

Torra typed: "No, I can't hear a thing.  But I can see you just fine.  I can see anything I want to, anywhere, actually."

"Anything anywhere?" Torra enunciated carefully.

"Anything anywhere," the presence typed through Torra. "When I drifted into the unlinked hyper hole in the planet's remains, I entered parallel space and never came back out again.  As far as real space is concerned, I'm travelling at infinite speed.  So,"

Ken mumbled the answer as Torra typed it, "I cross every point in real space simultaneously."

"So you're alive?" Jennifer asked. "In parallel space?  For seventy-eight years with no food or oxygen?"

"Sorry, could annunciate more clearly?" the Centaurian channeled.

Jennifer sighed brusquely and pulled up a keyboard of her own. "You're still alive in parallel space?" she typed, her words flashing on another screen.

"Well . . . . . . . . . yes and no.  I don't think I still have a body.  Matter has no more meaning in parallel space than time does."

Ken leaned over Jennifer's keyboard and typed, "How do you see and think without eyes and a brain?"

Torra paused, receiving nothing. Then: "I don't know."

"I've got a question," Torra said, informing its companions that the next thing it typed would be its own thoughts. It typed, "Our history says that you disappeared just a few hours after the first hyper bomb detonated.  This was years before parallel space and hyper holes were even named.  How do you know what they're called?"

Torra's hands flew into action of their own accord once more. "I told you I exist everywhere.  In deep space, in the interiors of stars and planets, inside other people's bodies . . . and in regular offices and libraries.  Any place a display screen gives off light, or light reflects off a piece of paper, I can read it.  I tried to read every paper on phased antimatter bombs and the holes they punch in space as soon as it was published, and a few of them even before that.  I've become quite the self-taught expert in the field of parallel space physics, if I do say so myself."

Jennifer typed, "So, you're aware of everything going on everywhere at once?"

Torra's hands channelled Arnold's words onto the keyboard again: "No.  I can only focus my attention on one location at a time.  Although I can switch to any new location instantly."

"And me?" the Centaurian enunciated, not wanting to type this personal question. "How do you control me?"

"I don't know that either," its hands typed. "I've being putting myself inside other people's heads for decades.  I can't read others' thoughts, but I was hoping some of my thoughts would get "picked up".  I had some barely-noticeable success in the early years when some investigators came to study the UV Ceti IV hyper hole, but it only lasted when they were nearby.  However it works, it seems to come out of the hyper hole I entered.  It took me decades to be able to stretch any kind of mental influence as far as another star system.  With you I finally got lucky.  And just in time, it would seem."

"Just in time?" Jennifer typed, visibly nervous. "Just in time for what, precisely?  You said everything was going to end soon.  *Everything*?"

"The supermassive black hole at the center of the Milky Way," Torra typed.  "Sagittarius A*.  It's nearly 4.4 million solar masses right now.  It's close to the upper mass limit for a black hole."

"What?!" Ken barked. "That's crazy!  There is no upper limit to the mass of a black hole!  We've detected black holes in other galactic clusters that are over a billion solar masses! The whole universe is just the interior of a great big black hole, with a mass of . . . well . . . of the entire universe!"

"There's no upper limit in *real space*," the Centaurian's digits replied. "Black holes bridge the gap between real space and parallel space just like hyper holes do.  And there *is* an upper limit to the mass-energy of a black hole in parallel space.  Those billion-solar-mass "black holes" you've detected aren't black holes.  There was even a paper in _The Journal of Hyperspace Physics_ that proposed this upper mass-energy limit, but it used really hard-to-follow tensor math.  Well, hard for *me* to follow, anyway.  Do you remember NGC2 +29° 583470?"

All three looked at each other, dumbfounded.

"It was a radio galaxy, spiral class S2, in a supercluster about eight gigalightyears away.  The supercluster was precision photographed, all the galaxies in it were assigned New General Catalog 2 numbers, and the observations were shelved.  Most astronomy at the time consisted of local star surveys for military purposes, so galactic astronomy took a back seat.  170 years ago the same supercluster was precision photographed again, only this time, no NGC2 +29° 583470.  The few people working on it assumed that the earlier photo was bad, that maybe the image of another galaxy from the same cluster had reflected off one of the scope's surfaces and left a ghost double or something, and it was that false image which had been called NGC2 +29° 583470.

But I went back and traced the light path from about 200 light-years back, and the truth was, the galaxy really had been there, and it really had vanished.  The black hole at its center reached its upper mass limit.  The parallel space version of a white hole opened up in real space, right there in the center of that galaxy, and a spherical wave of utter annihilation expanded out from the galactic center at infinite speed.  According to the journal paper, there wouldn't have been anything but total vacuum left within 15000 light-years of the center.  Past that, the wave would be tenuous enough that it might leave behind some hydrogen gas at interstellar densities, but nothing thicker than that.  The whole effect is supposed to extend outward for about a hundred thousand light-years.

So when I said *everything* is going to end soon, I suppose I was exaggerating.  Only the entire Milky Way galaxy is going to end soon.  Everything else will be just fine."

The three sat or stood in stunned silence for a long moment. Finally, Ken typed, "You brought us here to tell us that the whole galaxy is doomed, and that there's nothing we can do about it?!"

"No," Torra typed-dictated, "I brought you here because there *is* something you can do about it."

Jennifer: "We can stop a four-millon-solar-mass black hole from blowing up?  How?"

Arnold through Torra: "Punch a hole in it.  If you detonate a hyper bomb just outside the Schwarzchild Radius, oriented so that the hyper hole ends up facing away from it, mass-energy trapped inside the Radius can get out.  It'd be like opening a pressure relief valve."

"That's ridiculous," Jennifer typed, "Everybody knows that nothing inside the Schwarzchild Radius can get out, so how would making a hyper hole *outside* the radius help?"

Arnold through Torra: "Nothing inside the Schwarzchild Radius can achieve *escape velocity*.  That doesn't mean that matter or energy trapped inside can't go a *little* ways beyond the Radius and fall back in again."

"And how," Ken typed, "Can you *get* a hyper bomb that close to a black hole, and have it remain intact long enough to detonate it, before the tidal gravity turns it into spaghetti?"

Arnold through Torra: "Supermassive black holes have surprisingly shallow gravity gradients.  Their gravity may be *strong*, but it's more or less *uniform* close up.  It's only the small black holes that have significant tidal forces nearby."

"So, okay," Jennifer typed, "Let's say that this isn't a trick, that you really are the disembodied spirit of Arnold Hasselberg, that Sagittarius A* is really about to go wipe out the galaxy, and that the only hope is to poke it with a planetbuster.  Even if all that were true, nobody's *ever* mounted a trans-galactic voyage before.  There's no way we can build a spacecraft guaranteed to last the 30 000 years it'll take to reach the center of the galaxy, let alone ensure that the phased antimatter warhead and the live crew or semi-intelligent programming will last that long."

Arnold through Torra: "It wouldn't matter if you could.  Sagittarius A* is due to reach the mass limit in a matter of months."

All three looked at each other in wide-eyed horror. Ken and Jennifer fought each others' hands on the same keyboard, and both typed: "MONTHS?!"

Arnold through Torra: "Yes.  That was why I was so insistent about you getting here within a decade."

Before any of them could respond, Torra's hands flew into action again: "I'll bet you're wondering how you can cross thirty thousand light-years in such a short time?"

"The thought had crossed our minds, yes," Jennifer said aloud.

Arnold through Torra: "There's something here amid all this rubble that might help you do just that.  You see, the phased antimatter bomb wasn't the only invention the Mad Scientist was working on when he died.  He never told anyone about this other invention, but somehow, the prototype managed to survive the destruction of UV Ceti IV.  It's small enough that those visiting hyper-hole investigators missed it, back in the day.  When I saw the words "Zero Drive" scrawled across its surface, I went back and researched what-all kind of wonky alternative physics the Mad Scientist had expressed an interest in.  Did you know he'd read the few papers on Hyperspace Physics published before his phased antimatter bomb experiment?"

"Yeah yeah," Ken typed, "Everyone knows that.  To this day no one's sure whether he knew his bomb might create a Hyper Hole or not."

Arnold through Torra: "Well, apparently, he also had a fondness for an even wackier line of theoretical inquiry that flies in the face of everything we know about relativity.  It's called Absolute Space Physics.  It starts with the harebrained hypothesis that there *is* a preferred inertial frame of reference in the universe, and tries to follow that out to its logical conclusion.  It turns out, it can be made to *work*.  All the known effects from relativity -- time dilation, mass increase, Lorentz contraction -- also appear as consequences of the Absolute Space equations, if you assume the speed of light isn't bound to the preferred reference frame.  The Mad Scientist even wrote a paper about it.  He had it published under a pseudonym, in a really obscure alternative science journal, which is why most people haven't heard about it."


Radar targets crammed every millimeter of Torra's tactical display. There were more echoes than the system could track. "Ugh. Any one of these blips could be the zero drive. There's way too much debris out there to pick out a single three-meter cone."

"Like looking for a needle in a haystack," Jennifer offered.

"What's a haystack?" Ken asked.

"Erm, never mind," the C.O. shook her head.

"Maybe our friend in parallel space can help," Torra said, placing two of its hands on the console keyboard. It typed: "Arnold, can you pick out the zero drive for us?"

Instantly, Torra's hands began manipulating the tactical controls. They switched to axis-based targeting, hesitated for just a moment, then rotated the whole spacecraft until one specific radar echo was dead-center on the display.

"Is that it?" Torra asked, switching on a camera and zooming it in on the centered blip. Small rocks drifted in front of the object, but even partly obscured and lit only by the glow of the red dwarf sun, its shape was unmistakable. It was a narrow, polished, gloss-black cone.

"Holy cats," Ken mumbled, staring wide-eyed at the display.

"Marking the target," Torra intoned, tapping the cone's radar blip; it lit up with a flag and a label.

Ken studied the camera display, then reached over and zoomed back out. "It's pretty close to the main orbiting mass. I can dodge the bigger rocks, but there's a God-awful amount of fine dust between us and it. I'll bet some of that dust is electrically charged, too, which means it'll be sucked in by the drogue. We'd have to retract the drogue before we got close, or risk clogging the intake."

Jennifer piped in, "Could we reconfigure the slug launcher to work as a magnetic snare?"

Torra glared at her with one eye. "You mean jury-rig the E-43's magnetic focuser to yank on a distant target instead of pushing on a slug? Well, if we had a real engineer, which I'm not, and the right set of tools, which we don't, we might be able to build a low-efficiency short-range magnetic snare out of disassembled mass driver parts in, oh, three or four days. But it wouldn't help us even if we did. Magnetic snares don't have enough precision. We'd grab the zero drive and every iron-rich piece of debris in its vicinity."

Jennifer nodded. "It'd probably be easiest if one of you went out to get it in the Ascender." She turned to Ken. "Suit up, sunshine, you're going extravehicular."

"Me?" Ken glanced at Torra's four long arms. "You sure the Lieutenant here wouldn't do better at wrangling a three-meter cone?"

"I'd rather have a navigator at the controls of the Ascender than a spacecraft weapons operator," she answered. "And not to sound too macabre, but if some disaster happens to the Ascender on the way out or the way back, well . . . Torra's the only one who can get messages from Arnold's ghost."


"Not . . . exactly," Ken worried. "I recognize that particular scent. It's the same perfume she was wearing when we —" He stopped himself. "You know I used to be under her command, and I transferred to a different unit, right?"

"Yeah," Torra replied. "She says she pushed you too hard professionally, but I've heard rumors she was stalking you."

Ken winced. "She and I were . . . intimate."

"Hm?"

Ken palmed his face momentarily. He'd really have to spell it out. "We mated."

"Oh!" Torra glared an eye at him, trying to think through the implications. "So, you two were married?"

Ken shook his head. "Humans don't always pair-bond with their mates. Sometimes we're driven just by the urge to mate. Sometimes we want comfort and companionship with whoever happens to be available. And sometimes, even with the best of long-term intentions, we find out we can't get along with our mates, or just . . . lose interest in each other. When I first met the Colonel, I was just a Lieutenant like yourself. She was confident and powerful, and . . ." he smirked ". . . she's pretty easy on the eyes, too. But she always, always, always had to be in control. Maybe that's why she gravitated toward command in the first place. She had her own ideas of where my career 'ought' to be going, her attachment to me got cloying, and after a couple weeks of being her lover, I . . . started seeing a side of her I didn't like." He bit his lip. "A scary side."

"Hm?" Torra leaned forward in concern.

Ken waved a hand. "I don't really want to go into the details. It's nothing you need to worry about. Anyway, I broke it off pretty soon after that." He inhaled incomfortably. "She didn't take it so well. And a jilted lover doesn't make for the best C.O. to serve under. That's why I put in for the transfer."

"And now," Ken continued, "She's requisitioned me, specifically, to be her navigator on a skeleton crew, on a mission decades and light-years away from civilization, and she's wearing perfume — which she never used to wear on duty."




"So, tell me Ken," the Colonel's voice sounded in his headset. There was something . . . odd about the way she said it. It had a slight edge of smugness, almost — but not quite — to the point of being condescending. "Why was Jake diagnosed with the Emotional Plague?"

His blood ran cold. When he finally replied, it took all his effort to keep the shaking out of his voice. "Jake?"

"Yes," her voice came back, "Jake. The old friend you visited just before we left Human-Centauri."

"How did—"

"You're my navigator," her voice interrupted. "Of course I kept tabs on you while you were saying your goodbyes. This Jake fellow was never in the HCDF, so I had no way to pull his dossier. As a private citizen, the reasons he was diagnosed with the Plague were kept confidential, although I did manage to find out that he refused therapy. I was just wondering if you might want to . . . shed some light on his circumstances."

"He . . ." Ken began, then figured he'd better tread carefully. "He doesn't actually believe the Plague exists."

"A lack of belief in the Emotional Plague is a pretty serious thing," Jennifer's voice sounded almost chiding, "But being an aplaguist isn't sufficient grounds by itself for a Plague diagnosis. There must have been some other, real reason, some other crime he committed that gave the needed evidence."

"Uh . . ." Ken hesitated, letting his eyes drift to the black cone still in his charge. "Actually, I'd be breaking his confidence if I told anyone about that. Why . . . why are you so worried about Jake all-of-a-sudden?"

"It's not Jake I'm worried about," her reply sounded ominously in his ears, "It's you." She paused, just long enough for emphasis. "You had a girlfriend just before we left Human-Centauri, didn't you?"

"Uh . . ." Ken couldn't see what she was driving at. "Well, yeah. Why —"

"You had a woman," Jennifer's voice cut him off, "Who had given her heart to you, who should have been the single most important individual in your life, but when it came time to decide whom to spend your last precious moments at home with, you didn't choose her. No. You chose a man who not only had the Plague, but who didn't even believe the Plague exists. What did Jake say to you? What did you say to him?"


"You're poisoning us.

"Colonel?" Ken transmitted, "I don't understand, could you —"

"You didn't think I couldn't hear your conversation with that xorn, did you?" Even through the tinny ear speaker, Ken could hear edge in Jennifer's voice. "You think the Emotional Plague is fiction. You'd jeopardize everything Human-Centauri stands for just to make life easier on some of your old friends."

Alarmed, Ken slapped the transmit stud hard. "Colonel, Jennifer, listen! I —"

"'Humans don't always pair-bond with their mates,'" she cut him off, mocking his words. "Well, you didn't, that's for sure!"

Ken drew a deep breath. That's what this tirade was all about? "You want to get rid of me, because I had a fling with you?!"

Ken glared back at Mercurand, imagining Jennifer at a transmit station. He caught a glint; was the spacecraft rotating?

"Typical emotional plague reaction," Jennifer's voice answered. "The most intimate, vulnerable act two people can experience together, and you pretend it was meaningless. I was in love with you, damn it! But now I see you're just sick, the plague turned you into a heartbreaker long ago. We're all better off without you. Good riddance, Ken!"

Across the void, framed against the gloss-black of Mercurand's right side, a tiny flash of light erupted.




A muffled bang! reverberated across Mercurand's walls and floors. The whole spacecraft lurched madly to one side, slamming Torra Zorra against the observer room's near wall. That was a slug launch!

Torra yanked itself down the access tunnel. Now Mercurand was accelerating in the opposite direction, its side thrusters trying to counter the 30-or-so meters per second of delta-v the slug launch had just imparted to it; that made the climb that much harder, and Torra's shaking tentacle-fingers weren't helping. Just like a human's fight-or-flight response, every muscle in a startled Centaurian came alive with nervous energy. Torra jitterred as much from the bang as from its implications. There was no way the E-43 could go off accidentally; even if every failsafe malfunctioned, someone had to deliberately load a slug into it or it'd have nothing to fire. Had some new threat popped up, so close that Colonel Doe had tried to shoot it? Torra's brain-gut ran through the possibilities as Torra pulled itself along. It had seen the sky rotate just prior to firing; the E-43 would have been pointing damn near where Ken's Ascender was supposed to be. Why would the Colonel endanger both her navigator and her retrieval operation by firing near them? Or . . . clans and chaos, she didn't actually hit the Ascender or Ken, did she?!

Was she . . . Torra inhaled sharply through all four mouths . . . was she aiming for Ken deliberately?

The stress points of human psychology had always frightened Torra a little. They could panic, or snap and turn violent, from events that wouldn't even faze a Centaurian. Torra figured it'd better not take any chances. It stopped at a supply cabinet along one corridor wall, popped open the latched door, and scanned through the sundries tethered inside. There, on the left . . . a stundart pistol, built for a Centaurian's tentacle fingers. Torra ripped the small-but-massive weapon from its velcro mount, and twisted the voltage knob to the detent for a human target; training to use these things for self-defense was one thing, but Torra never thought it'd be using one against its superior officer. It hoped its guess was wrong.

As it neared the command center, Torra slowed and pulled itself along as silently as it could manage. It poked an eye stalk through the side hatch. Jennifer Doe was floating in front of the weapons console — Torra's station — her back to the door, her eyes firmly glued to the console's tactical display. Her head was partly in the way, but Torra could make out the blip it'd tagged as the Zero Drive, and near it, another tagged blip for the Ascender. She seemed to be wrestling with unfamiliar controls, designed for a short user with foot wheels and twice as many arms, trying to move the targetting crosshairs onto the second blip manually. On the control panel, the E-43's three green telltale lights indicated that the waste heat from the previous slug launch had been shunted away, the capacitors were recharged, and a fresh slug was already loaded into place. The slug launcher was ready to fire again at the touch of her hand.

In one beat of Torra's hearts, Colonel Doe went from clan-away-from-clanmate to dangerous predator that had to be hunted down.

Torra moved the pistol level with the eye facing Jennifer and lined up the gunsights. Its hand twitched like mad from the terrible reality crashing down on its psyche. Damn it, Torra scolded itself, Keep that barrel on target! It aimed as best as it could for her broad human back, the biggest target on that bipedal body, and let fly. There came a "poof" and a "crack," and the tiny electric dart lodged itself dead-center in Jennifer Doe's neck.

A stundart was an electroshock weapon, a miniature self-powered taser. Jennifer should have screamed. She should have convulsed. She should have contracted into a jittering ball, the way every electroshock victim did. But instead . . . she simply locked stiff, and then went limp.

Torra suddenly remembered, to its horror, that human muscles lacked the Centaurian ability to lock in place without effort. A limp human muscle was one that had shut down. Torra raced arm-over-arm to her, still gripping the stundart pistol in its third hand lest the gun bounce around the room in microgravity. It grabbed her wrist in its fourth hand, trying to remember where you were supposed to check for a human pulse; when it found none, it tried her neck. Nothing. It yanked the spent dart out of her neck, then bent its eye turret forward, placing its central ear right next to her mouth; but there were no sounds of breathing.

"S.I.!" Torra called out. "Medical emergency!"

"I see it," the S.I.'s level voice intoned. "Assemblybot deployed, fetching medical scanner."

A few distant clunks in rapid succession gave way to a whirring and a gentle breeze. A general-purpose assembly robot had pulled itself through the corridors with a ducted fan, scanner held firmly in two of its grippers. In one smooth motion, it moved straight up to the lifeless upper torso of the Lt. Colonel and placed the scanner plate in direct contact with the exposed skin of her neck.

"Colonel Doe's spinal cord has suffered burns consistent with a high-intensity microwave beam or a high-voltage electrical current, between the fifth and sixth thoracic vertebrae. The nerve damage is highest severity. Her spinal cord has been completely burned through, resulting in total paralysis below the neck. She is also in non-fibrillation cardiac arrest."

What?! This wasn't supposed to happen, not with a stundart! "Can you repair her?" Torra pleaded.

"No," the S.I. stated.

"Then," Torra grasped at whatever straws it could think of, "Then CPR!"

"Colonel Doe's cardiac arrest is non-shockable," the S.I. intoned. "The electrical current that burnt out her spinal cord may have conducted down her spine into her heart before it burned through. Attempting direct pressure cardiac stimulation."

The assemblybot grabbed onto a handhold with its strongest gripper arm, and pressed Jennifer's body firmly against the wall. It pressed mercilessly against her chest, directly over her heart, trying again and again to thump it back to life. Then, it removed a fearsome-looking hypodermic needle from the scanner package and thrust it deep into her chest cavity.

After an agonizing moment, the S.I. announced, "Cardiac adrenaline injection was ineffective. Colonel Doe's heart is still stopped. I am out of options."

Torra buried its eyes in its hands. Torra was out of options too.

It pulled itself, still shaking, to the comm panel and keyed the mike. "Ken, this is Torra. The Colonel is dead. What's your situation?"

The receiver stayed silent for several seconds. Then: "The Ascender, the Zero Drive, and myself are all unhurt! Whatever Jennifer did before she died, it must have missed."

Torra craned its eye stalks over to its weapons console, trying to piece together the details of what Jennifer must have done. "She fired the slug launcher at you," Torra answered Ken. "Targeting's still in axis mode, from when I marked the Zero Drive on radar. Looks like she was trying to line the crosshairs up with you manually. That's probably why she missed. Even then, she would've gotten you if she'd thought to load a shrapnel pack — which she didn't. Do you have any idea why she shot at you?"

"Yes," came Ken's voice. "She . . . oh boy." A pause. "Did you have to kill her?"

"I . . . I didn't mean to!" Torra stammered. "I only shot her with a stundart. The S.I. said it hit her spine and fried her central nervous system, or something."

"You set it for a human target, right?" Ken's voice asked.

"Yes!" Torra glanced down at the pistol still in its grip, re-checking the position it'd left the voltage knob in.


"That cone looks pretty big," Torra radioed. "Do you think it'll fit in the docklock?"

"By itself, yes," Ken's voice replied. "With the Ascender in the docking arms at the same time? I doubt it."





The Pentagon War is continued in chapter 14.
Roger M. Wilcox's Homepage