“Holtsnider,” the Commander snaps, “tell those men to move out. Tell them they have to do it this way or they don’t have a chance at all.”
“Aye, Commander.” The Chief’s tone makes it clear he doesn’t like this any better than his men do. Moments later, “They’re off, sir. Gentemann, get up there and make sure the bird’s nose stays level when I start the lift cycle. Commander, looks like Seven jammed because the riser arm hydraulics didn’t equalize. If it looks like the nose won’t stay with the tail, we’ll balance with the hand crank.”
“Very well.”
Once the handful of novels have been read, the drama tapes have been run to death in the display tank, the music tapes have been played to boredom, once the lies have all been told and the card games have faded for lack of a playable deck, Climber people turn to studying their vessels. To what we call cross-rate training, the study of specialties other than their own. Gentemann is an old hand. He can help the Chief without complicated instructions.
I’ve browsed a few Missileman’s manuals myself. (Like most writers, I spend a lot of time avoiding anything that smacks of writing.) I could manage Gentemann’s task myself. Not that I’d want to.
The mechanical drama continues. Concern for Kinder and Manolakos overshadows the inexorable march of time.
“One minute.” Nicastro’s voice shows some life. This is waking him up.
“Eleven’s ready, Commander. She tests go all the way. We’re coming in.”
“Good, Chief. Hang on where you are. We’re going norm. Scramble when we do.”
“Aye, Commander.”
The alarms play their cacophonous symphony strictly by the book.
“Mr. Varese, stand by the airlock.” That has to be the most needless instruction I’ve heard all mission. Half the engineering gang will be there waiting. “Throdahl, you ready to fix on Haesler’s beeper?”
“Ready, Commander.”
We drop.
Holtsnider comes through on radio. “Commander, I don’t see any suit lights. Have they reached the lock?” The lock, at the bottom of the Can, can’t be seen from the torus.
“Over there, Chief,” Gentemann says.
“Shit. Commander, they fell loose. They’re drifting pretty fast. Okay. They’ve spotted us.”
“Lights on,” the Commander snaps.
Kinder’s voice whispers, “There she is, Tucho!. Yo! I see you! I’m bringing us in on my jets.”
Manolakos is babbling.
“Kinder, this’s the Commander. What’s the matter with Manolakos?”
“Just panic, sir. He’s calming down.”
“You see Haesler’s lights? Anybody?”
“Not...”
Fisherman interjects an “Oh, goddamn!” startling everyone. “Commander, I’ve got another one. Coming in from two seven zero relative at forty degrees high. Destroyer.”
“Berberian?”
“Singleship in norm, Commander. Tracking.”
“She’s coming in, Commander,” Fisherman says. “We’re fixed.”
“Time?”
“Five or six minutes to red zone, Commander. In the yellow now.” Red zone: optimum firing configuration. Yellow zone: acceptable firing configuration.
“Damned instel link with the singleship,” Yanevich growls.
The Old man thunders, “Holtsnider, get your ass in here now!”
“Commander, I’ve fixed Haesler’s beeper,” Throdahl says. “Nineteen klicks out, straight past Manolakos and Kinder.”
“Commander, the destroyer is launching missiles,” Fisherman says. “Double pairs. Multiple track.”
“Time. Canzoneri.”
Weapons has the missiles boarded but can do nothing to stop them. They’re coming in hyper, will drop at the last second. The way a Climber beats that is maneuver. We can’t maneuver. We’re no Main Battle. We carry no interceptors. All the Commander can do now is Climb.
Piniaz orders the accumulators discharged again. He does so on his own authority. The Commander doesn’t rebuke him.
“Throdahl, get on the twenty-one band and put a tight beam on that singleship,” the Commander says. “Stand by for Climb, Mr. Westhause. Mr. Varese, do you have anyone up to the lock yet?”
“Negative, Commander.”
A murmur runs through the ship. Men releasing held breath. The situation is tighter than I suspected. Looks like the Old Man is going to tell the other firm he has to leave people behind.
There’s no policy, no agreement, but in those rare instances where something like this happens the other team usually honors the lifesaving signals, if they’re heard over the tactical chatter. They’re even kind enough to relay the names of prisoners taken.
Our side isn’t always that polite.
“Holtsnider, where are you?”
“Coming up on the lock, Commander. Five meters more. I have Kinder and Manolakos with me.”
“Damn it, man...”
“What’s happening?” Kinder demands. He’s been holding up. Panic now edges his voice. Manolakos is babbling again.
Chief Canzoneri says, “Commander, we’re running out of time. We won’t clear the fireballs if we don’t go soon.”
“Mr. Varese, get those men in here!”
Westhause has more guts than seems credible. He holds Climb till the last millisecond. A schoolteacher!
And still we go up without the Chief or Machinist, without Kinder or Manolakos or Haesler.
The walls mist. And Varese sighs, “Oh, shit. I can see
Holtsnider.... He’s trying to turn the wheel-----He’s gone.
Just seemed to fall off.”
He falls, with Gentemann, Kinder, and Manolakos, into multiple fireballs. The ship bucks, rattles, and warms appreciably. They’re shooting straight over there.
Pale faces surround me. Four men have reached the end of the line. Maybe Haesler was lucky.
“Think they’ll count us out?” Westhause asks.
“Organics in the spectrum?” Yanevich counters. “I doubt it. Not enough metals.”
“Evasive program, Mr. Westhause,” the Commander snaps. Take her up to fifty Bev.” His voice is tightly controlled. He’s become a survival computer dedicated to bringing the rest of us through.
His face is waxy. His hands are shaking. He won’t meet my eye. This is the first he’s ever lost a man.
“Too old a trick, waiting till the last second,” Yanevich says. His voice sounds hollow. He’s talking just to be doing something. “They won’t buy it anymore.”
“I wasn’t trying to sell anything, Steve. I was trying to save four men.” Westhause too is shaken.
The Climber bucks again. And again. The plug-ups skitter around. Odds and ends fall. Gravity acts crazy for a second. “Damn!” somebody says. “She’s got us figured close. Damned close.”
“See what I mean?” That’s Yanevich. I can’t tell who he’s talking to. Maybe the Commander.
The Old Man isn’t one to abandon a tactic because it’s familiar. Nor will he not take advantage of the inevitable loss of men. He’ll try anything once, because it might work, and do his crying later. In this situation his inclination is to sit tight and hope the destroyer thinks she got us.
First move in a larger strategy.
The Climber rocks again. The lights wink. So much for fakery. Someone snarls, “It’s that damned singleship. She has a fix on our point.”
So it begins. The run after the Main Battle was never this hairy.
I have a feeling it’ll get hairier.
My expression must be grim. Seeing it, Yanevich smiles weakly. “Wait till his family comes to the feast. That’s when we separate the men from the boys.” He chuckles evilly, but forcedly. He’s as scared as I am.
This kind of action is part of every Climber mission. You’d think the old hands would get used to it. They don’t. Even the Old Man shows the strain.
The hammering continues.
The Ship’s Commander aboard the hunter-kille
r will have tactical control now. He’ll be nudging countless brethren into position throughout the spatial globe defined by our estimated range in Climb. Their strategy will be to jump us when we try to vent heat, forcing us to Climb before we can shed it. Thus, the globe they have to patrol can be reduced, densifying their operation. And reducing our chance of venting much heat next time we go down.
And round and round and round again, till the Commander is faced with a choice of abandoning Climb or broiling.
When they can’t pull the noose that tight, they try to force a climber to exhaust her CT fuel. That takes patience. Unfortunately, they have patience to spare.
“Looks like the fun is over,” I tell Yanevich.
“Yeah. Damned Tannian. Just had to go after Rathgeber.”
“Stand by, Weapons,” the Commander orders. “Get your accumulators on the line.”
“What the hell?” Even the first Watch Officer seems puzzled. “We’re barely getting warm.”
“Junghaus, Berberian, I want a course, range, and velocity on that destroyer instantly. Take her down, Mr. Westhause.”
The walls solidify.
We shed our heat in seconds, amid probing beams.
‘Take hyper.” The destroyer is closing fast.
Mr. Piniaz discharged his weapons in her direction just to be doing something.
“Four missiles, Commander,” Berberian says. He adds the data the Old Man ordered before going down.
“The singleship?”
“Dead in space in norm, Commander.”
“Good. Maybe he’s collecting Haesler. He’ll be out of it awhile. Junghaus. Anything else in detection?”
“Negative, Commander.”
“All right, Mr. Westhause. Take her up. Twenty-five Bev.
Weapons, Ship’s Services, I want all heat shunted to the accumulators. Chief Canzoneri, see if you have enough data to predict that destroyer.”
“Course and speed, Commander. Want to guess which way and how tight she’ll turn?”
The Old Man stares into the distance for a moment. ‘Take it as standard. Looks like he’s following standard procedure, doesn’t it? Mr. Westhause, when you have the data, put us down on her tail. As soon as Mr. Piniaz has a charge on the accumulators.”
“Sir?”
“Baiting her. She’s gotten off twelve missiles already.” The Climber shakes. Fearless states a yowling opinion from somewhere round the far side of the compartment. “She only carries twenty.”
Is the man abetting Tannian’s mad strategies? If he keeps kicking up dust he’s going to draw a crowd. We’ve got to get hiking.
Piniaz murmurs, into an open comm, “Or twenty-four, or twenty-eight, depending on her weapons system. What the hell is he doing? She’ll still outgun us when her missiles are gone.”
“Mr. Piniaz.” Icicles dangle from the Commander’s words.
Let’s not count missiles before they’re hatched. Whatever they have, they’ll use them intelligently. I don’t like this. My stomach is surging up round my Adam’s apple. We should be running, not dancing.
But the Commander is in command. His job, and curse, perhaps, is to make decisions.
“Ready, Commander,” Westhause says.
‘Take her down.”
We drop almost too close for the destroyer to see, in a perfect trailing position, which presents her with an impossible fire configuration.
“No imagination,” the Commander mutters. “Fire!”
The Energy Gunners drain the accumulators.
The opposing Commander skips into hyper before we more than tickle his tail. He sends return greetings by way of another missile spread.
Through the chatter of Fisherman, Rose, Berberian, Westhause, and others, conies the Commander’s, “That’ll give him something to think about.”
Ah. I see his strategy. Little dog turning on big dog. Maybe we’ll startle them into a mistake that’ll give us a chance to break completely free.
An hour dancing with the hunter-killer. They’re disconcerted over there. We’ve spent no more than five minutes in Climb. Our ability to vanish gives us a slight advantage in maneuverability. The singleship has lost track of our Hawking point. We can duck their missiles, appear unexpectedly.
The hunter-killer has quit wasting missiles. It’s now a beamer duel.
“Hit!” Piniaz cries, in a mix of glee and amazement. “We hurt her that time.” This is his second victory cry. Our horsefly game has paid off, viewed strictly as a one-on-one.
“She’s gone hyper,” Junghaus says. “Not putting weigh on. Looks like drive anomalies.”
“Coward,” the Commander jeers. He’s won the round. They’re staying in hyper, where we can’t reach them without using a missile. A missile they can, no doubt, dodge or intercept. Climbers make their easy kills because they appear out of nowhere, making their missile launches before the other team can react.
The petty triumph feels good. We made monkeys out of them. But behind the good feeling there’s the worry about the destroyer’s sisters. They’ll be forming their shell around our sphere of range.
“Commander, singleship is putting on headway.”
“Ach! Getting too busy around here.”
“She’s launched, Commander.”
“Climb, Westhause! Emergency Climb!”
The Climber shakes as if she’s in the jaws of an angry giant hound. What a shot! Dead on our Hawking point. Only my safety harness keeps me in my seat. The ship feels like she’s spinning. One missile. That’s all a singleship carries. She won’t be hitting us again. Let’s hope we break away before she gets a good lock on our point. Don’t want her dogging us forever.
I catch a glimpse of my face in the dead visual screen. I’m grinning like a halfwit.
‘Take her down, Mr. Westhause. To hyper. Junghaus, check that destroyer.”
Seconds pass. Fisherman says, “Still no weigh on, Commander. Drive anomalies are worse.”
“Very well. What do you think, First Watch Officer? Did we damage her generators?”
“Possibly, Commander.”
“Easy meat, eh? Make a launch pass, Mr. Westhause.”
We make the run, coming in from behind, but the Old Man doesn’t give the order to launch. The destroyer wriggles, but not well enough to get away. She doesn’t shoot back. Out of missiles. Damaged. Easy meat indeed.
“Take us out of here, Mr. Westhause.”
Victory enough, Commander? Just let them know you could’ve taken them?
He pauses behind me. “That’s for Haesler. They’ll understand.”
Piniaz’s comm line is still open. The gunners all grumble about the lost chance to avenge their Chief. The Old Man scowls but says nothing. Must be a malfunction in the switch down there.
“Make for that star now, Mr. Westhause.” Throughout the action, between maneuvers, the Commander and astrogator have been eyeing a sun with what seems an unhealthy lust. Why get in there where the mass of a solar system will complicate our escape plan?
Another case of my not knowing what the hell is going on.
The star is an eleven-hour fly. In Climb. Blind. With internal temperature rising every minute. It passes in silence, with crew taking turns sleeping on station. Piniaz and Varese get little sleep. They wrestle with the agonizing chore of redistributing the work of the men we lost.
I’ll take in some of Piniaz’s slack, though I’d rather stay in Ops. That’s where the action is. I assume a post at the missile board while an energy-rated Missileman moves over to cover for Holtsnider. Covering Missiles shouldn’t be difficult with only the one launch bay armed. The control position for Launches One and Four can be abandoned.
Varese ameliorates his shortage by using Diekereide and commandeering Vossbrink from Ship’s Services. Bradley can cope without Voss.
Westhause again demonstrates what a fine astrogator he is. He brings us down so near the star that it appears as a vast, fiery plane with no perceptible horizon curvature. And he manages t
o arrive with an inherent velocity requiring only minimal angular adjustment to put us into stable orbit.
How does he manage so well with a computation system scarcely more sophisticated than an abacus?
The roar of the star should mask the Climber’s neutrino emissions and confuse all but the closest and most powerful radars. I’m told orbiting or slingshotting off a singularity is even more effective. “Vent heat.”
It’ll be slow going this close to so mighty a nuclear furnace. Typhoons of energy pound our black hull.
“Fire into the star,” Piniaz tells his gunners. “We don’t want him seeing beams flashing around.”
Slow work indeed. After a time, I ask Piniaz, “Will continuous firing strain the converters?”
“Some. More likely to cause trouble in the weapons themselves, though.”
Another in an apparently endless string of situations I don’t like. “How long before the other firm figures what we’ve done?”
“They’ll be checking stars soon,” Piniaz admits. “The trick isn’t new. One of the Old Man’s favorites, in fact. We once star-skipped all the way home. He’ll bounce us to another one as soon as Westhause has his numbers.”
“Where’d you serve before you came into Climbers?” I ask, hoping to profit from a talkative mood.
Piniaz gives me a queer look and dummies up. So much for that. The man is as self-contained as the Commander, and less interested in coming out.
Next star-stop is an eight-hour fly. The troops again nap on stations. Westhause slides us into another gem of an orbit. I think we’ll make it. The Commander has forced the enemy to enlarge his search sphere. He can no longer adequately monitor it. Visiting Ops, I suggest something of the sort to Yanevich.
He raises one eyebrow, smiles mockingly. “Shows what you know. Those people are pros. They know who we are. They know the Commander. They know our fuel margins.” He nods. “Yeah. We’ve got a good chance. A damned fine chance, with Rathgeber gone. We’ve gotten out of tighter places.”
Doesn’t look that tight to me. Been no contact for over twenty hours.
The crew haven’t used the hours well. To a man they’re on the edge of exhaustion. They need to rest, to really relax, in order to bury the ghosts of those we left behind...
Some of the old hands are eyeing me oddly. Hope they’re not thinking I’m a Jonah-----Convince yourself, Lieutenant.