GabVerified@getongab BREAKING: Gab’s domain registrar has given us 5 days to transfer our domain or they will seize it. The free and open web is in danger.
The free and open web is not in danger. Literally NOTHING has changed except that Gab has received a legal wakeup call from reality. It’s more than a little remarkable that they didn’t anticipate this. Remember, I warned Andrew Torba that they ABSOLUTELY HAD to moderate their content, and I did so back in November, long before anyone had “said mean words” or “hurt my feelings” there. I did so again on September 7th, both when I emailed Utsav after our conversation and in my conversation with him.
What I believe inevitably doomed Gab with Asia Registry was not merely the complaints that were being made to the registry in lieu of Gab providing its users with any other option besides the recommended court order, but Gab’s public stance on its refusal to moderate defamation as laid out in its Google filing. There are three sections that are relevant in this regard:
81. Even if it were possible for a social media platform to censor “defamatory and mean-spirited content” generated by 250,000 users, a level of content censorship that extended to “defamatory” and “mean-spirited” content would place at risk that service’s status as a protected Internet Service Provider, as opposed to a publisher or speaker, under 47 U.S. Code 230, also known as Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act (“CDA”)
82. Unlike an Internet Service Provider, a publisher or speaker is not granted the “safe harbor” benefits of Section 230, and may be held liable for defamation or other torts or other liability arising from content published on a platform it owns or manages.
251. Compliance with Google’s demand that moderate content posted by its users on a viewpoint-discrimination basis would place at risk Gab’s critical “safe harbor” protection against claims arising from such content under Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act by turning Gab into an unprotected editor or publisher, whereas it is presently protected as an Internet Service Provider.
This is bad lawyering for four reasons.
Some forms of defamation are criminal in Australia. Gab openly stated, in a public filing, that it cannot, and will not, remain in compliance with Australian law.
Gab is not an Internet Service Provider. An Internet Service Provider, or ISP, is the company you pay a fee to access to the internet, not an internet site that lets you comment on it.
Section 230 of the CDA doesn’t only protect ISPs, but also protects both the users and the providers of interactive computer service and says neither “shall be treated as the publisher or speaker of any information provided by another information content provider.”
As a Texas entity – which Gab still is despite its establishment of a second office to be able to file its lawsuit against Google in Philadelphia County – Gab was additionally protected by the Defamation Mitigation Act, or Retraction Statute of 2013, which protects the publisher by giving him the option of correcting the mistake by publishing a retraction or deleting the defamatory content.
In other words, on the basis of an entirely groundless fear of being sued for what they like to describe as “mean words”, Gab elected to state on the public record that they would not moderate for “defamatory” content, in open violation of the laws of the country in which they selected their registrar.
Not ready for prime time doesn’t even begin to describe the level of strategic and legal incompetence demonstrated here.
This really isn’t that difficult. As I have repeatedly said, as I have repeatedly told Andrew Torba, moderation is a must. It is implicitely required by law, and for those who want access to the Play Store and the App Store, it is explicitly required by Google and Apple. More importantly, if you refuse to offer your users a reasonable form of redress they can easily afford when they are targeted for harassment, don’t pretend to be surprised or upset when they pursue alternate means to achieve their objectives just because those means happen to be more damaging to you.
I am the only one who pursued the course of action recommended by Gab. Considering the expense and the additional harassment that entailed, is it really surprising that everyone else opted for the free and anonymous course of action? In any event, Gab will find another registrar. I hope they will also find the common sense required to install some reasonable moderation policies, or they’re just going to find themselves right back in the same position in a matter of weeks.
A strange, painful sensation of hope came across her then. It was like a sick, hot feeling boiling in the pit of her stomach. Maybe nothing was wrong. Maybe those who sought her life were not nigh. What if this were merely the night nurse, walking softly so as not to wake a sick patient?
She lowered her eye to the gap between the curtain hem and the floor. Her cheek touched the floor tile, and she realized it was linoleum. It was good for footing: resilient, and splinter free. And if she were horribly wounded, there would be no delay to getting her to a hospital, would there be?
That stray thought produced a second: where was the hospital staff? Who had brought her here? Why hadn’t he stayed to look after her?
The sight of the figure bent over the bed drove all other thoughts away. He wore a red cap with a white owl’s feather atop his shaggy head, and a long green coat over his broad back, but beneath the lower hem of the green coat were not sterile and comfy shoes favored by doctors. He wore knickerbockers buckled at the knee and was barefoot.
His seemed to have a skin condition: his feet were covered with clumps of hair, and strands were even growing up between his toes. His feet were too long and thin. She wondered if a bone disease in his feet had disfigured them. His toenails were an inch long, half an inch thick, and yellow as horn.
Not a nurse. Not a normal person with healthy feet.
He lowered his head toward the empty bed. She heard a soft noise. A snort. A snuffle.
He was sniffing. The stranger with the bad feet was sniffing her bedsheets!
She was waiting for him to be far enough into the room that she might have a chance to slip out behind him and race out the door.
That hope was quashed when she heard the rustle of two other people entering the room. She heard the creak of the door being eased shut, and heard a slither of steel and then the click of a padlock shutting.
She was locked in the room with three of them.
Laignech Faelad
Her mind went blank. There was no other exit, no escape.
The first man was still sniffing the bed. He spoke without turning his head. “The ring was here, but the scent is confounded! Phaugh! My nose be filled with starch and stink, ammonia and disinfectant!”
A second man stepped into her view. He was bald, stocky, and dark skinned, wearing a green leather motorcycle jacket and steel-toed workboots. In his hands he carried a chain. He held it with his hands apart so that the chain was taut and the links would not rattle. He also wore a red cap. “The moon is near the earth. Let us take up our true forms.”
The second man shrugged out of his jacket, tossed the chain on the bed, and began undoing his belt and trousers.
The third was not a man. He stood on two legs and had arms and hands like a man, but his head was the head of a goat. His knees bent backward, and his hoof was split. He was over seven feet tall, thick of chest and broad of shoulder to match. Except for his own natural pelt of brown and black, he was naked. A barnyard smell came from the monster. Between his ram horns was perched a red peaked cap with a white owl’s feather. In his hands was a long trident, whose tines scraped against the ceiling tiles.
The monster spoke in a strangled voice, like a man sounds when he speaks while breathing in. “Here as yet, I wager, missy? Here as yet?”
The monster clip-clopped to the closet and yanked open the door, brandishing his trident as he did so. “We are come to crack your bones and lap the marrow!”
Inside were a small toilet and sink. The goat-man’s ears drooped.
The butt of his weapon brushed against the wheeled bed stand and knocked it over. The remote control for the TV bounced on the floor and came to rest a foot or so from her hand.
The second man had his trousers about his knees and was scowling and unlacing his boots. His face turned darker and began to elongate, and hair sprouted from his bald head as well as from his cheeks, jaw, neck, naked back, and shoulders. His ears were getting larger and standing out from his skull, like the ears of a dog.
The first man, the barefoot one, was beginning to turn his head as he looked to the other corners of the room. He was about to turn his head far enough to see her. She pushed the red button on the remote.
The noise of the television overhead, and the light from the screen, were startling in the quiet gloom. All three flinched and looked up. The barefoot man stepped backward and thus was half a step closer to her.
It was close enough. Instinct moved her limbs. Before she was aware of what she was doing, she had vaulted toward the barefoot man, selecting him as the most immediate target.
She heard the echo of a voice in her memory: In fighting a man, a girl is less in strength, reach, speed, and spirit. Your bones are more easily broken. Your heart more easily frightened. This does not mean victory is his! Use his strength against him. Use his speed against him. Use his skill against him.
The first man turned and rushed at her. She saw that he was an amateur fighter, one who tries to punch or tackle before judging his distance properly. She stepped closer, inside his swing, bobbing her head. His fist flew past her ear.
She snap-kicked, using her shin rather than her foot to land the blow. His legs guided the blow to his groin, and his strong forward momentum gave it force. Had he been a weaker man, moving less quickly, he would not have injured himself. But he was very strong.
On the backstroke on her same kick, she drove her instep down his shin and brought the heel of her bare foot onto his strangely narrow foot hard enough that she heard a cracking noise.
The echo said: If a man cannot walk, he cannot fight.
He doubled over in pain. He tried to grab her, but missed.
While he was doubled over, she gripped her own wrist and twisted her upper body to drive the corner of her elbow into his temple. He stumbled and fell.
The second man, the one who had been bald but was now halfway transformed into a wolf-creature, swung at her with a limb that was neither a man’s arm nor a forepaw. But because the limb was still in the midst of changing length, it neither struck nor clawed her.
She grabbed the hairy wrist with one hand and drove her palm into the elbow joint. It is usually an easy joint to damage, but the man simply grunted in pain and swung at her with his other hand. With his trousers binding his knees, he was off balance. But he still had quick reflexes and he was blindingly fast.
She deflected his blow with both her forearms and let the force of his blow pull her inside his reach. His reflexes had betrayed him: now she was inside his guard.
She straightened both of her arms and struck at his face, one hand to either side of his nose. The index finger was extended, and the other three fingers were bent underneath in support, lest her index finger break from the blow. The curves of the face naturally guide the blow into the eye sockets.
The echo said: If a man cannot see, he cannot fight.
When he instinctively drew his hand back to his face to protect it, she drove her knee into his floating rib where his arms were no longer in place to block.
He doubled over. She did an acrobatic flip across his back and landed on the bed, picking up the chain as she did so. A second somersault carried her to the strip of floor between the foot of the bed and the bathroom door.
She was close enough to the goat-man now to strike at his long nose with the chain. He tried to parry with the haft of his trident, but the chain wrapped around it and struck him on the soft snout. Breaking a man’s nose in a fight prevents him from drawing air. She hoped this held true for goats as well.
The echo said: If a man cannot breathe, he cannot fight. Before she could follow up, the goat-man struck at her with the butt of his weapon, and, moving unexpectedly fast for someone his size, he vaulted backward until his rear hoof touched the door. She blocked the blow with her knee, but his strength was such that even the partial blow had force enough to fling her, stumbling, across the room. She tripped, did a back handspring, and regained her footing but she had lost the chain, her only weapon.
Goborchend
Her gaze was on the goat-man’s monstrous form crouching by the door. She now saw how they had locked the door with no lock. One of them had inserted a metal strip between the door and the jamb, and padlocked a sliding clamp in place. She did not like the fact that they had evidently prepared this attack.
The goat-man said, “You hurt my hounds! But you will find a Goborchend is not overcome so readily as the Laignech Faelad!”
She was trembling with fear and rage. The other two men were now both on the ground, in convulsions. She dared not take her eyes from the goat-man, but in the corner of her eye she saw—or thought she saw—hair turning to fur and spreading over their flesh, faces stretching, writhing and changing shape, and limbs shriveling from human hands and feet into wolf paws. Both were howling, but whether this was from the pain of their wounds or the rage of their transformation, she did not know.
She backed up. There was a lightweight chair next to her, and she felt the Venetian blinds brush her backside.
She picked up the chair in her hands and turned sideways, crouching.
Blindingly quick, the goat-man lunged with his three-headed spear. She parried with the chair legs, deflecting the tines high. The tines became tangled with the blinds, and he pulled the whole curtain rod off the wall when he recovered from the lunge. The three windows stood in one frame. They were old-fashioned, from the days before the invention of air conditioning, nothing more than glass panes held in wooden sashes.
She was sweating freely now. He was taller and stronger, she was backed into a corner. There was no retreat. He was tall enough, and his trident long enough, that he could strike her anywhere in the room.
The two others rolling on the floor now grew less agitated. The bed blocked her view of them.
The goat-man shifted his weight and struck again.
His forward hand, which was constantly in motion, weaving and bobbing, guided the trident, and his rear hand, arm and shoulder, gave weight to the blow. With three spear blades instead of one, he could strike three places at once. And with each twitch of his hands, he switched the trident blades from vertical to horizontal and back again.
This time, she managed to deflect the blow to her left. The tines penetrated the glass and stuck in the wood of the frame. He roared and yanked. The whole window frame came out of the wall and fell into the room in a spray of splinters, nails, and clouds of powdery dust.
She saw a narrow stone ledge, less than nine inches wide, flush with the lower lip of the sill.
The only way to overcome a more skilled opponent is by doing the unexpected, something for which his reflexes are not primed to counter.
The monster took a moment to kick the wooden debris free from the head of his trident. That moment was her only chance. Up she vaulted, and slid out the window, in one smooth and reckless move, nimbly as a gymnast.
GAB: to two different people, neither of whom was me.
1. “If our registrar requires us to remove something again we will publish it here and let everyone know that you whined to them because someone hurt your feelings with mean words on the internet.”
2. “We just don’t “moderate” to the whining crybaby standards of your husband.”
Gab has also permitted the posting of home addresses, in direct contradiction to its Terms of Service,. I’ve now counted and screen-capped FOUR address postings on Gab, by various Gab users, in direct violation of Texas SEC. 33.07. ONLINE HARASSMENT. The offense is a Class B misdemeanor.
TWITTER: to me, in response to three different reports of tweets which varied in their degree of abusiveness.
1. Thank you for contacting us about this issue. We’ve investigated and suspended the account you reported as it was found to be participating in abusive behavior. If these problems persist for you on Twitter, please let us know.
Thanks, Twitter
2. Thank you for contacting us about this issue. We have reviewed the account you reported and have locked it because we found it to be in violation of the Twitter Rules. If the account owner complies with our requested actions and stated policies, the account will be unlocked. Please continue to report any future violations of the Twitter Rules to us. We appreciate your help making Twitter better for everyone.
Thank you, Twitter
3. Thank you for reporting this issue to us. Our goal is to create a safe environment for everyone on Twitter to express themselves freely. We reviewed your report carefully and found that there was no violation of Twitter’s Rules regarding abusive behavior.
Thank you again for reporting this issue to us. Twitter
Now, I’m not exactly what one would call a fan of Twitter. Their moderation is inconsistent and often applied unfairly. They partially block direct access to this blog on rather dubious grounds, and its Trust & Safety Council once suspended my account for a week for posting a picture of a cartoon fish, of all things. It also forced me to delete two of my 35,800 tweets about a year ago when I had responded to an SJW attacking me. Nevertheless, there is absolutely no question that their user experience, their moderation policies, and their reporting tools, are vastly better than Gab’s.
I recommended Gab to many of you on the basis of it being an alternative to Twitter. With the benefit of hindsight, it is now apparent that doing so was a mistake. I had no idea that Gab would somehow manage to create a less professional, less viable, and even less useful alternative to Twitter. While Gab had a fair amount of potential, it simply doesn’t have a management team in place that is capable of realizing that potential.
Which is why I have canceled my Pro account and returned to Twitter for the time being.
This is an interesting paper chronicling the ethnic cleansing of Miami, as seen from the perspective of the black-run Miami Times from 1960 to 1985, as a million immigrants poured into Miami-Dade County, which in 1960 had a population of 935,047. As the author notes:
Four themes developed through the Times’s editorials. The first was governmental favoritism towards Hispanics. The second was alarm because of the sudden and seemingly endless growth in population, with its attendant problems. The third was acknowledgment of the Cubans’ growing economic and political power and the need to reckon with it. The fourth referred to underlying common interests tempered by local political rivalry.
Hispanics now make up 65 percent of the population of the county, with more than half of them being Cuban. 52{9764fb840510ebfbcceeb8e5e656358a091cd25464f3be0f86629b28d17bfdb9} of the county residents were born outside the United States, while 72{9764fb840510ebfbcceeb8e5e656358a091cd25464f3be0f86629b28d17bfdb9} of the population speaks a language other than English as their primary language.
Sebastien Gorka tries to tell the anti-immigration Right to settle down about DACA, but in doing so, illustrates that neither he nor the President truly grasp its position.
Gorka: “Take a deep breath, and wait a day.” Sure enough, less than a day, nine hours later, we have the counterpoint from the press secretary and from the President himself. Look, having worked for the man, let me tell you that it’s neither of the options that you, or scenarios that you have painted. He knows, he knows why he is the president. He knows that the first policy issue that catapulted him into preeminence as a presidential candidate was the border, was immigration. He knows that when Jeff Sessions put on that hat, Jeff Sessions was bringing his stance on illegal immigration to his campaign to set him apart from the 16 other hackneyed establishment candidates the GOP had arrayed against him. The president’s not gonna go back.
The other scenario is also fallacious. I love reading how we have these uber-Trumpsters… Look, I’m here to support the president inside the White House or outside the White House. If I read another article on how the president is doing 48-dimensional chess…
Buskirk: Right.
Gorka: It’s just, no, he doesn’t do that. He’s not some kind of uber-Machiavellian operator. He is an instinctual actor, a masterful … But he’s not plotting a … Steve Bannon is the fifth dimensional Vulcan, OK? That’s how Steve Bannon operates. He is the super strategist. The president, and that’s why Steve and the president work so well together, the president, as we’ve discussed, is this present, natural, instinctual actor. He goes into these meetings in ways that the swamp doesn’t. Of course, they tweeted the second they got out of the Oval, because they’re politicians and they want to get reelected. The president doesn’t think like that. He’s thinking about the American interest, and at the end of the day, he is not going to sell us up the river, I tell you that.
Buskirk: Okay, so look, that’s extremely helpful. That’s why I really wanted to talk to you. You know the president as well as anybody, way better than most. What’s your understanding of what happened? What do you think is the right way to think about it?
Gorka: Okay, so two things are important. The way I explain what’s happened in the last seven days is the following. Number one, the original response to DACA from the president is quintessential Donald Trump. He said, “Look, this is un-American because it’s unconstitutional.” President Obama behaved like an emperor when he created DACA. He has no right to legislate from the Oval Office, and that’s why he told to the attorney general, “End it now.” That’s why AG Sessions said, “DACA is over.”
However, Donald Trump, if you’ve read anything about him, to get his own books, read the real books not the tag jobs, the real books about him. He is one of the most charitable, kind-hearted men you’ll ever meet. He doesn’t wear it on his sleeve, he’s very quiet about it, but he is a very warm-hearted individual. He is not prepared to see young men and women who have not committed any crime of their own doing, be deported from this nation. He said to Congress, “Guys, let’s work this out.” Criminals, we get rid of them, and he’s absolutely adamant. You’re a member of MS-13, you’re a Dreamer who’s killed somebody, as has happened, you are going to be imprisoned or be deported. End of story. For those people who have not committed any crime beyond being brought here as a child by their parents, we’ve got to find a solution that comports with our Judeo-Christian charitable basis. Those are the things we have to understand about what the president is doing.
This is why philosophical coherence, and intellectual precision, are so important. Because when you don’t have the guidance offered by those tools, you will have a tendency to make decisions based on your emotions. First, there is no “Judeo-Christian charitable basis”, so the entire premise is false. There is no need to find a solution that comports with something that does not exist; the Good Samaritan did not adopt and take into his house the children of the man he found beaten by the roadside.
Second, if Donald Trump is not prepared to see young men and women who have not committed any crime of their own doing be deported, he is not psychogically suited to be President. The law is clear, the principle is settled, the American people have been burned by such amnesties before and they are not going to accept another one, no matter how many sob stories about “Dreamers” are waved like red flags before the public.
However, if there is one thing that is clear about Donald Trump, it is that he is capable of learning from his mistakes. His base needs to be very clear about the fact that failing to keep his word on DACA is not acceptable.
I didn’t really need to talk. Andrew – or someone in control of the @getongab account who talked as if he was Andrew – showed up and demonstrated most of my points rather effectively.
Seriously, this is easily as crazy as anything the show Silicon Valley ever produced. What do they drink out there anyhow and is the effect permanent?
And now Andrew Torba has publicly endorsed people attempting to doxx and report hate speech by his users despite the way in which doing so would clearly violate’s Gab’s Terms of Service. At this point, given the unprofessionalism and obvious lack of self-control being demonstrated by Andrew, I think it is safe to conclude that Gab is dead. It simply hasn’t stopped moving yet.
Microchip · @Microchip Link me @voxday’s dox when/if you have it. Don’t be shy, it’s public record somewhere and it’s time to ensure the safety of our allies.
Spacebunny Day · @Spacebunny @a thinks this is okay – not against ToS or anything. Gab is doomed.
Microchip · @Microchip Why wouldn’t be okay? If it’s public info, it’s public info, if you allowed your info to be posted somewhere online, not Gab’s problem, that’s your problem.
Pepe Memes · @Pepe_Memes Die of breast cancer, you fucking cunt
Spacebunny Day · @Spacebunny @a @e @u – brilliant work you’re doing. Truly.
Microchip · @Microchip Don’t be bad at this, Space lady, I’m not asking for anyone to do anything illegal here, I’m asking for @voxday’s info so I can send the police to his home and have him arrested for hate crimes.
Spacebunny Day · @Spacebunny I said against ToS, dear. Gab claims to moderate, they demonstrably don’t. Not only do they not have a chance against Google, they won’t last, period. It’s disappointing. You, however, are boring.
Andrew TorbaPRO · @a Lol. Yes, we do. We just don’t “moderate” to the whining crybaby standards of your husband. He’s not the boss here. Period.
Todd Kincannon @ToddKincannon I am open to persuasion, but that has not been my experience. Also, the ToS expressly disclaim a duty to moderate, while reserving a right to moderate. Don’t you agree with that? cc: @a @u @voxday
Spacebunny Day · @Spacebunny He never claimed to be, dear. You shouldn’t have bragged about not moderating and not just to Vox.
Andrew TorbaPRO · @a Cry more sweetie. Whine more.
Spacebunny Day · @Spacebunny Not crying, dear. Just observing.
Justin Bailey · @Botany_Bay16309 So are you going to remove the post trying to dox Vox Day, or are you just a bald faced liar?
Andrew TorbaPRO · @a No dox occurred. If info is public it is public. Not our problem. Public info is public domain. Deal with it.
Andrew TorbaPRO · @a Wow if I lived in a country that had “hate speech” laws I’d be pretty worried about what has been published on my “blog.” Someone might “report” it or something.
The actual Terms of Service cited:
Considering that, unlike Gab, my blog doesn’t even violate Google’s rules concerning hate speech, I can’t say I’m terribly worried about being found at fault for violating any European hate crime statutes. And if I was, I would simply do as directed and remove them to resolve the situation.
As usual, Americans have absolutely no idea how Europeans do things.
A high school in California has warned students against chanting ‘USA’ at sporting events in case it offends students of ‘different ethnicities’. Lori Emmington, the principal of Vista del Lago in Folsom, California, sent an email to parents and made the announcement over the PA system on Thursday.
She suggested that it was appropriate for students to chant ‘USA’ after singing the National Anthem or Pledge of Allegiance but that if used at athletic events in any other way, it could risk sending an ‘unintended message’. ‘During an athletic event, when Vista fans are in a competitive environment and cheering their school pride, chanting USA might be confusing. What is the intent, and is it open to misinterpretation? What would be the purpose at a sporting event?’ the email read.
When women like this are removed from their positions for acts of such pernicious defeatism, we’ll know that confidence has been restored. If that ever happens.
25 years after the end of the Cold War and the publication of the ninth volume of THERE WILL BE WAR, Dr. Pournelle revived his classic science fiction series with Castalia House. THERE WILL BE WAR Volume X continued the tradition of combining top-notch military science fiction with first-rate real-world analysis by military experts. The Cold War may have ended, but as recent events everywhere from Paris to Syria have demonstrated, war has not. THERE WILL BE WAR Volume X is edited by Jerry Pournelle and features 18 stories, articles, and poems. Of particular note are “Battle Station” by Ben Bova, “Flashpoint: Titan” by Cheah Kai Wai, “What Price Humanity?” by David VanDyke, and the eerily prescient “The Man Who Wasn’t There” by Gregory Benford. Volume X also includes timely essays on “War and Migration” by Martin van Creveld, “The 4GW Counterforce” by William S. Lind and LtCol Gregory A. Thiele, USMC, and “The Deadly Future of Littoral Sea Control” by CDR Phillip E. Pournelle, USN, which was awarded the 2015 Literary Award by the Surface Navy Association for “the best professional article in any publication addressing Surface Navy or surface warfare issues.”
Editor’s Introduction to: FLASHPOINT: TITAN by Cheah Kai Wai
Arthur C. Clarke said that if the human race is to survive, for most of its history the word ship will mean space ship. I will add to that the obvious implication that Navy will soon mean Space Navy. The Space Navy will certainly keep many of the traditions and practices of the wet navies, for the same reasons that they developed in the first place.
Navy stories are as old as going to sea in ships. The heroines of those stories are often ships as well as their crews. Here a story of a heroic ship and her crew.
FLASHPOINT: TITAN by Cheah Kai Wai
Something was wrong. Somewhere in the sea of data before him, there was a shark swimming amidst a school of fish. Commander Hoshi Tenzen of the Japanese Space Self Defense Force narrowed his eyes, studying his ship’s combined sensor take on his console.
The console displayed the data as a three-dimensional hologram. In the center of the display, Takao was a blue triangle pointing towards a bright yellow mass. That was Titan, the largest moon in the Saturnian system, ten thousand kilometers away. Other yellow dots indicated satellites, orbital structures and shuttles with Titanian registration. White tracks indicated civilian space traffic. A number of small green dots orbited Titan, each representing American orbital patrol ships. Each contact carried a unique tag, displaying vector, velocity, name and other critical information.
There was too much data. He was drowning in it. Leaning back, he studied the big picture, looking for patterns of activity. Ships came to Titan, dropped off cargo, picked up other cargo, and left. It was their purpose in coming here.
But there were ships that did not fit this pattern.
Four of them. Their beacons claimed they were merchant ships registered to Clementine Space Transport Services, headquartered in Ceres. They were burning at five milligees, their vectors pointed at deep space.
But there was nothing of interest beyond Titan. The only other significant human activity past the moon was the gas mines at Uranus, which were almost completely automated.
So why were these ships accelerating?
Hoshi opened a new window, studying the radar track history. For the past week, the quartet had plodded steadily towards Titan on deceleration burns. They arrived three hours ago, entering the ten thousand kilometer orbit at a velocity of two klicks per second. An hour later, they flipped around and burned their engines. And they hadn’t stopped since.
His console chirped. Prometheus, the largest colony on Titan, was hailing Takao on the laser communications array. They had a message for Takao’s ears only.
He accepted the hail on his implants. A broad Midwestern accent flooded his skull. “Takao, this is Prometheus Control. Welcome to Titan. I wish I could greet you under more auspicious circumstances, but we need your help.”
“Copy, Prometheus Control,” Hoshi replied in English. “What kind of help do you need?”
“Takao, I want to draw your attention to Cloud Nine, Summer Squall, Autumn Lightning and Blue Jasper. They just pinged the laser launch array, the space elevator and the colony with lidar. They claim they are testing their instruments, but I’ve never heard of merchies that need military-grade lidar. We think they’re up to something.”
Hoshi looked for the ships. They were the same four ships he had flagged. Takao had designated them S-547 through S-550. They had formed a box, each ship separated by two hundred and fifty kilometers. He’d never known civilian freighters to take up such a formation in orbit.
But he knew warships did prior to a bombing run.
“Prometheus Control, understood. If these are Q-ships, we are ready to provide assistance. Be advised, we are carrying a full war load.”
Q-ships were warships disguised as merchant vessels. They couldn’t match the performance of real warships, but they could remain concealed until they released their weapons, making them the favorite of pirates and terrorists.
“Thank you kindly, Takao. We’re going to run an emergency drill, clear the airspace, and launch the alert squadron. Our plan is to lock down the ships and board ’em for surprise inspections. Give us a half hour and we’ll be in place.”
“Roger, Prometheus Control. If the suspect ships attempt to resist or escape, we will provide fire support.”
“Much obliged, Takao. Let’s do this.”
Hoshi typed a command on his console. Throughout the ship, a klaxon sounded. He keyed the ship-wide intercom and said, “All hands, sentou youii. All hands, sentou youii.”
The crew rushed to assume their battle stations. Around him, the duty personnel in the Combat Information Center tensed. Other spacers streamed in, taking their places.
Hoshi buckled himself into his seat and summoned a window that tracked the ship’s status. One by one, the boxes representing each deck and department turned green. He patted down his blue skinsuit, checking for holes. Two minutes later, the ship was at maximum readiness.
Lieutenant Kamishiro Takeshi, whose place as Executive Officer was in the astrogation deck above Hoshi, called him. “Sir, the ship is battle ready.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Hoshi turned off the klaxon, brought his officers into a conference call, and briefed them.
“Gentlemen, this is no longer a shakedown cruise,” he concluded. “Remember: everyone back home is watching. Do not screw up.”
Only Kamishiro had the courage to snicker over the line. “Ryoukai!” Roger! “We won’t let you down.”
No one was watching him, so Hoshi allowed himself a momentary smile. “Sensors, extend telescopes and track the bogies. If they pull in their radiators, inform us immediately. Intelligence, assume the bogies are Q-ships and develop a threat profile. Weapons, create a solution for long-range engagement. Astrogation, plot an interdiction vector at full thrust.”
Hoshi and his Astrogation head, Lieutenant Sato Koichi, went back and forth until they were satisfied. Then Ensign Tanaka Michi, the Engineering officer, got on the intercom.
“All hands, accelerating, accelerating.”
The Japanese Space Self Defense Force called Takao a multimission patrol ship, the first of her class. But that was a misleading misnomer. Takao was truly a torch ship.
Mobilizing her gyroscopes,Takao rotated in place. Once vector-aligned, the fusion drive roared, accelerating the ship at one-third gravity, faster than any warship ever built. As Takao ate up the distance to Titan, Ensign Subaru Ryuto, the Weapons chief, hailed Hoshi.
“Sir, I have a solution.”
Subaru’s solution called for engaging the threats with Takao’s main laser from standoff range, then finishing them with missiles. Her point defense lasers and railguns would handle counterfire.
“Very good, Subaru. But while use of the laser is as per doctrine, there are Chinese forces a week out from Titan, and the Americans don’t need to know our capabilities. Set the lasers to ultraviolet-A. Then launch two sunrays and program them for the same frequency. Boost the sunrays to a deep space vector that enables us to make broadside shots against the bogies.”
Lieutenant Junior Grade Nakamura Makoto was next in line, ready with the threat profile. “Captain, the ships are registered as independent merchant vessels, displacement of twelve hundred tons each. They have deuterium-tritium drives, maximum acceleration of five milligees. They have a payload of five hundred tons each, mounted on external cargo pods. They claim to be carrying a shipment of ice from Ceres. Assuming these are Q-ships, I expect the pods to be filled with missiles and possibly drones.”
“Nakamura, did you say five milligees?”
“Yes sir. The reactor is either pretty small or pretty underpowered.” Nakamura hesitated. “Or they are concealing their actual acceleration profile.”
“Let’s assume the latter,” Hoshi said. “If they are Q-ships, they must suspect something by now. Titanian airspace is being cleared, the orbital patrol is converging on them, and our drive capabilities are as plain as day. Why haven’t they attacked yet?”
Nakamura took a moment to think it through. “Sir, they must be waiting for all their targets to enter their engagement envelope. That means the orbital patrol squadron, the laser launch array…and us.”
Hoshi’s blood chilled. Maybe they pinged the colony and pulled a burn so that everybody would come running into their sights. If Takao closed with an enemy too fast, she would be setting herself up for a point-blank missile swarm—one even she could not dodge in time.
“Thank you, Nakamura. Tanaka, halt acceleration.”
The drive cut off. Hoshi contacted Prometheus Control and passed on his men’s thoughts.
“Thank you very much, Takao,” Control said. “We’re moving slow too. We don’t want to spook them into doing something stupid. Way I figure, they will want to wait until we launch the alert squadron before striking.”
“Roger. What’s the plan for Q-ships?”
“Our priority will be to protect the Elevator, the colony, and the laser launch array, in that order. We will aim for impactors first, drones second, missiles third, and the Q-ships last.”
“Copy. We will target the Q-ships, drones and missiles in order of decreasing importance. We will also try to trash enemy weapons, but we don’t want to splash you by mistake.”
“Much obliged, Takao. If you don’t mind, let us handle impactors. That should prevent friendly fire. Also, let us know if you have to fire kinetics and I’ll get my birds out of your way.”
“Roger that, Prometheus Control.”
Subaru contacted Hoshi as soon as he closed the connection. “Sir, sunrays are good to go.”
Hoshi checked the solution and nodded. “Thank you, Subaru. Stand by.”
Hoshi brought up the radio controls, tuning it to the guard channel. “Attention all stations, attention all stations. This is JS Takao. We will be launching laser-propelled probes shortly. Please maintain separation of one hundred kilometers from my vector.”
Space warships launched probes so often that nobody would think twice about the announcement. Hoshi repeated the announcement three times, then said, “Launch sunrays.”
Powerful gas generators kicked the two Type 99 missiles into space. Takao trained a point defense laser bank on the nozzles of both missiles. Each of her lasers housed two independent turrets. The turrets picked a sunray each, and ignited the solid propellant in the missiles’ nozzles. Subaru’s solution would place the sunrays just over a thousand kilometers from the suspect ships when the operation was slated to begin.
Hoshi called up the telescope feed. Ensign Mori Arata, the Sensors officer sharing the CIC with Hoshi, was tracking the four-ship formation with his telescopes. The ships were still making steady burns, barely deviating from their predicted paths.
White dots bloomed from Titan’s surface. The Americans were launching on schedule. The rest of the orbital patrol closed in on the bogies.
Hoshi tapped his fingers against the console. If the bogies continued to behave themselves, all would be well. Yes, Hoshi would have to explain expending two Type 99 mirrors, but they were replaceable. On the other hand, if the bogies…
“Sir, Sierras 547 to 550 are retracting their radiators!” Mori called.
Radiators, being the primary means of shedding heat in space, were the most vulnerable and critical component of a ship. Ships only ever retracted them to prevent them from being harmed—or shot off. Over a colonized world, pulling in radiators was tantamount to a declaration of war.
He hailed the ships on the guard channel. “Attention, attention. This is JS Takao. You are in orbit over an inhabited surface. Retracting your radiators is against international law. Extend your radiators or you will be fired upon. This is your only warning.”
“Sir, we’re being pinged by multiple lidar sources,” Mori said. “They’re from the bogies.”
“Subaru, what’s the status of the main laser?”
“Captain, the capacitors are fully charged and the firing solution is ready.”
Clusters of cylindrical objects decoupled from each of the spaceships and fired tiny chemical rockets, burning towards the moon.
“Sir, bogies have ejected cargo pods,” Mori reported. “They are increasing acceleration to fifty milligees and are taking an escape vector.”
With fifty milligees of acceleration they could outrun most ships. But to Takao, they were slower than slugs.
“Subaru, initiate solution.”
“Initiating solution, ryoukai.”
Takao sent an encoded laser pulse to the sunrays. Their boosters kicked out their payloads, and the smaller projectiles inflated their smart-matter mirrors. The mirror modules discharged their onboard capacitors, energizing the lenses to alter their shape and molecular structure to reflect UV-A beams. Takao unshuttered her main laser, situated in her nose, and unleashed a stream of pulses. Bouncing off the mirror, the invisible pulses drilled into Sierra 547.
The two main laser turrets alternated their fire, pausing just long enough to recharge their ultracapacitors. The lasers burned through the Q-ship’s engine. A ball of hot plasma erupted from the target’s rear. Secondary explosions followed, then tertiary explosions, and the ship broke apart. Hoshi blinked. Ships do not blow up like that, not unless the laser punched all the way into the reactor. Takao’s laser couldn’t do that, not at this angle of attack.
But that didn’t matter now. He had a fight to win.
Prometheus Control sent lasers snapping skywards, destroying as many pods as they could. The orbital patrol ships launched volleys of missiles, then closed into laser range. But there were too many pods and they could not get them all. The pods split open, dispersing their payloads.
In Hoshi’s display, huge numbers of red triangles popped into existence around the Q-ships, clustered so thick they formed a scarlet blanket. An alarm sounded.
“Captain, threat radar!” Mori called. “Ninety-eight strikers and twenty buzzards are locked on to us!”
“Chikusho!” Hoshi swore. “All hands, full guard, full guard!”
At the call, the entire crew snapped into action, following pre-established protocols. All non-essential systems and compartments shut down. Sato plotted the safest vector. Subaru directed his men to activate the point defenses. Nakamura activated the electronic warfare suite. Mori fed data to everybody as needed.
Powered by miniature nuclear reactor engines, ninety-eight missiles sped in at a quarter gravity. As they closed in, Tanaka yelled, “All hands, side kick! Side kick!”
Takao spun her gyroscopes, pointing her skywards. Her chemical maneuvering rockets fired, adding velocity to the turn, then fired again to cancel her momentum. The ship accelerated, burning for a higher orbit.
The missiles turned, trying to keep up. But the real threat was the twenty incoming drones. Fitted with nuclear gas-core rockets, they screamed in at one gravity, turning faster than Takao could, and fired barrages of smaller missiles from their coilguns.
“Sir!” Nakamura called. “Buzzards match profile of Tiannu drones!”
The Tiannu drone was an armed drone employed by the Chinese Space Forces. It was also obsoleted a few years ago, and its sensors were vulnerable to modern electronic warfare.
Some of the drones went berserk, firing blindly into empty space and chasing phantom targets. The point defense lasers burned down the rest. Takao continued spinning, giving her lasers a chance to cool off and recharge. The lasers fired low-powered pulses, melting sensors, electronics and payloads, sacrificing power for rate of fire. Many of the struck missiles detonated prematurely. More missiles spiraled away, confounded by the white noise in the air.
But dozens of threats survived to enter Takao’s kinetic engagement envelope.
The ship rumbled. Twenty-four Type 82 missiles leapt from her missile banks. Scorching towards the threats, the warheads detonated into sprays of tungsten cubes, each striking with the force of a small bomb.
Then Takao’s 60mm railguns fired. The guns churned out a barrage of fragmentation shells, placing an ocean of steel between Takao and the threats. The unguided flechettes disintegrated. The missiles tried to dodge. At this range, if the shells forced the missiles off a threat vector, it was as good as a kill.
But it was not enough. There were still too many missiles.
Takao still had reserves. If he launched them Hoshi was certain Takao would survive. Unscathed, even. But he had his orders, and his duty was absolute. The weapons could only be fired under exceptional circumstances, and a counter-piracy mission was, by definition, not exceptional. He could not use them, even if it meant the death of his ship and his crew.
He would not use them even to save his own life.
“Sir!” Subaru called. “Lasers have overheated!”
“Tanaka, divert all available coolant to point defense! All hands, brace for impact!”
Even as he spoke, twelve missiles survived to engagement range and detonated.
The lasers shut down completely. The railguns continued firing. They drew power from explosively pumped generators and had a separate coolant store, but were far less accurate than the lasers. Hoshi clenched his fists, watching tens of arrows close in on his ship.
Long seconds later, the lasers returned to life. Together with the railguns, they plucked the darts from the sky. Tanaka pulled one last trick, firing the engine and maneuvering rockets. The superheated exhaust consumed every flechette that entered the plumes.
But it was not enough.
The lasers dropped their shutters. The guns got off a final barrage. Then dozens of flechettes crashed into the ship. Tortured metal screamed. The blasts slammed Hoshi into his seat. Sirens went off. Alerts popped up on his console.
“Kamishiro,” Hoshi said, “damage report.”
The XO took a moment to check his boards. “Whipple shields compromised, no hull breaches. Forward missile cells damaged. Point Defense Laser Two reports damaged shutters, but not the turrets. No crew casualties.”
Hoshi heaved a sigh of relief. The enemy had loaded up with general-purpose flechettes. Hundreds could fit inside a warhead, but they lacked the punch to penetrate Takao’s armor.
He checked the display. The red blanket was rapidly dispersing. At some point, Sierra 549 had died in the hail of fire; she was now little more than debris and plasma. But the orbital patrol had been obliterated too, and so had the sunrays. And Sierra 548 and 550 were about to leave Titan orbit.
Hoshi wanted answers. At this angle, Takao’s lasers could punch through the enemies’ engines and into their reactors. But even civilian-grade compartment bulkheads would stop hypervelocity munitions.
“Tanaka, extend radiators. Subaru, target the enemy ships’ engines with muskets.”
Takao launched eight Type 83 missiles. These were fitted with anti-ship warheads, not the light flechettes Takao had endured. Her point defense lasers sent them soaring at the threats at three-quarters of a gravity.
The Q-ships couldn’t hope to outrun the missiles. But they had one last surprise. Hidden panels retracted, revealing automatic railguns. Two per ship.
“Nani?” Hoshi muttered. What?
Even as he spoke, the leading ship rained heavy metal down on the colony, while the other blasted at Takao and her missiles.
“Tanaka, evasive maneuvers. Subaru, snipe the railguns with lasers,” Hoshi said. “Prioritize the ones firing on Prometheus.”
Takao’s main laser discharged. Four shots later, the railguns blew apart. Then the point defense lasers kicked in, destroying the shells threatening Takao.
Prometheus didn’t take the insult lightly either. A lance of light carved through the heart of Sierra 548. Another speared Sierra 550. Shortly after, the four surviving muskets fired their payloads, spewing clusters of segmented-rod penetrators optimized for defeating armor.
The threats tried to turn their drives on the incoming flechettes, but they were too slow. The darts slammed into their engines, blowing them out.
Mori said, “Sir, bandits have ceased acceleration. No escape pods. No further targets. We have a grand—”
The telescopes blanked out.
“—slam?” Mori finished. “What the hell?”
The telescopes cleared. Sierras 548 and 550 were now rapidly expanding balls of plasma.
“Nakamura? What the hell happened?” Hoshi demanded.
“Looks like a reactor failure, sir. Mori, what’s in the vapor?”
“Lieutenant, laser spectroscope is picking up deuterium, tritium and heavy metals. Definitely a catastrophic reactor failure.”
“How likely is that to be from combat damage?” Hoshi asked.
“Our penetrators shouldn’t have damaged the reactor deck,” Subaru said. “Maybe the Americans?”
“Negative,” Mori said. “Spectroscope did not pick up fusion fuels following the laser strikes.”
“Suicide trigger then?” Nakamura wondered. “But that doesn’t make sense. Pirates aren’t suicidal. Even most terrorists aren’t that crazy these days. They’d rather surrender if they can’t maneuver.”
Hoshi thought again of Sierra 547. The secondary explosions were plausible, if the laser had struck a capacitor bank. But tertiaries? Ships were compartmented to prevent just that. It shouldn’t be possible, unless someone, or something, deliberately induced a reactor failure.
But now wasn’t the time and place to ponder such things.
“Gentlemen,” Hoshi said, “I’m sure we have plenty of questions. For now, we will secure from battle stations and clean up the skies.”
He had a very strong suspicion that this was not over. Not by a long shot.
