Hawk-Catching (V: Belisarius Cawl's One-Man War)

If anyone had been able to stand alongside Belisarius Cawl on the bridge of the Supreme Zeal at that moment, they could easily have reached one conclusion: there was something wrong with this ship.

Yes, it was abnormal.

Its bridge contained no sprawling arrays of cogitators, no star charts constantly streaming with data, no busy crewmen, and scarcely any decoration. It was bare, primitive steel-grey everywhere, astonishingly plain.

Perhaps only two things on this bridge could be said to contribute anything to its decor.

The first was the enormous observation windows. The cold radiance of space passed through them unhindered, illuminating every corner of the bridge without the need for any lights.

The second was a massive steel dais, surrounded by countless cables, making it resemble a solitary throne.

And Belisarius Cawl stood upon it.

Most of the cables, deeply buried beneath the deck, connected to his body and occasionally emitted strange humming sounds. His single eye was tightly shut, the light in his augmetic eye equally dim. His expression wavered constantly between pain and calm, as though he were dreaming.

Well, in truth, it was not much different—remotely controlling over a hundred million combat servitors, hundreds of thousands of aircraft, and over a thousand flying platforms providing armaments, supplies, and medical aid. How different was that from dreaming?

Cawl dearly wished he could remember what normal sleep and dreaming felt like, so that he could compare them to what he was experiencing now.

He wanted to reach the right conclusion. At least, part of him did.

Nineteen thousand, six hundred and twenty-seven.

The number suddenly flashed through one of Cawl's thoughts. It was the total number of thought processes he was running simultaneously. In other words, he had divided himself into nineteen thousand, six hundred and twenty-seven parts, assigning