“Can’t tell if anybody got through it,” the Commander mutters. “Coxswains would’ve had better luck.... Guess he has to go inside. Maybe they’ve been picked up already. Find an entry lock, Chief.”
Nicastro locates one a few meters from the pod. “What now, Commander?” His voice is taut and shaky..
“Go on in.”
“He should have backup,” I say. “We won’t be able to see what’s happening after he’s inside.”
“How are you at breathing vacuum?” Yanevich asks. His tone is hard, irritated. “We’ll give you the Commander’s pistol.” He wears a sneer. Maybe 1 should keep my stupid mouth shut.
The Chief cycles the lock and disappears. Half the screen gets snowy, vague. The Old Man mutters imprecations upon the ship’s designers. They could’ve given us a broader range of frequencies.
Tension builds. Five minutes. Ten. Where is the Chief? Fifteen. Why doesn’t he get on the station’s comm gear? Twenty minutes. They must’ve gotten him. Can we bluff them with our energy weapons? We can’t leave him here...
“Here he is, Commander,” Throdahl shouts.
“Put it over here.”
Nicastro’s voice croaks from a small speaker below the viewscreen. “... you read?”
“Got you, Chief. This’s the Commander. Go ahead.”
“Nobody home, Commander. Somebody cleaned the place out. Fuel stores zilch. Medical supplies, zip. Ten cases of emergency rations. That’s it.”
I’m still recalling the inside of the pod. Almost as bad as the dropship at Turbeyville.
“Damn!” the Old Man says. “Bring what you can to the lock, Chief.” He turns. “First Watch Officer. Tell Command we can’t rendezvous. Insufficient fuel.” Back to Nicastro. “Any spare suits down there, Chief?”
“Negative, Commander. I can manage. Cases don’t weigh much. Gravity system is off.”
“Take care, Chief. Out.”
Yanevich returns with a note he passes to the Commander. Command says to stand by here. The Old Man looks disgusted.
Yanevich leans forward, whispers, “We’re not alone, Commander. There’s a weak neutrino source two hundred thousand klicks out at two seven seven, twelve nadir. I had Berberian bounce a pulse. Corvette. No IFF.”
“Relative motion?”
“Almost zero.”
“And powered down?”
“Yes sir.”
Of the air, softly, the Commander demands, “Why is she hiding?” He stares at the display tank. Nothing unusual happening there. “Chief? Can you hear me?”
No response. “Must be moving the rations,” I say.
“Brilliant. Here. Sit. Tell him what’s happening.” He slides out, moves toward Westhause. “Put us behind this turd relative to this new bogey. No need attracting too much attention.”
My gut feeling is we’ve been seen already.
Berberian calls down, “Commander, she’s powering up.”
I tell Yanevich, “Here’s a guess about where the pod came from. Our boys hit a transport on its way in, then shot up the pods when the troops bailed out.”
Yanevich isn’t interested. His gaze is fixed on the display tank. “Fits the known facts. A Climber attack, probably.”
I glance at the tank, can’t tell if anything is happening.
“She’s accelerating, Commander,” Berberian says. “Slowly.”
“Where’s she headed?”
“Angling across the belt, sir. Inward. She might’ve been headed here, then noticed us.”
“Getting any closer?”
After a pause, Berberian says, “Yes sir. CPA about eighty thousand klicks. Be a long time, though. Looks like she’s sneaking away.”
By getting closer? Well, maybe. If that’s what she’s got to do to reach her friends.
The Commander snaps, “Mr. Yanevich, go twist Mr. Varese’s neck till he gives you some accurate figures. Absolutely accurate figures, not what he wants us to believe.”
Nicastro reaches the lock with the first case of rations. I explain the situation. “It’ll be a long time before anything has to be decided, Chief. Up to you.”
“Be less efficient, sir, but I’ll bring the cases over one at a time. You’ll be sure to get something if you have to haul ass.”
“Right.” I relay his plan to the Commander, who merely nods. He’s preoccupied with the corvette. He’s worried. She isn’t behaving right.
After a time, he comes to peer over my shoulder. “What’s she doing?” I ask.
“Sneaking. Probably figures we’re a Climber. Must guess we’ve seen her. She should be crawling all over us.”
“Berberian thought she was headed here when she spotted us. Maybe she’s hurt.”
“Why didn’t she yell for help and stay put?”
She hasn’t yelled. Neither Fisherman nor Throdahl have detected a signal. “Maybe she’s hurt bad.”
“Maybe. I don’t trust them.” He stalks toward Westhause.
He has his second wind. His shoulders no longer slump. His face is less sallow, more determined. He has the antsyness of a man eager to act. Were we in better shape he’d jump the corvette just to see what happened.
Next time past he says, “Eighty thousand klicks is close enough for energy weapons.” He rolls away again, reminds Mr. Westhause to keep the asteroid between us and the sneak.
Chief Nicastro appears with a second case of rations. Glancing at the compartment clock, I’m surprised to see how long he’s taken. Time is zipping.
The First Watch Officer comes through the Weapons hatch. He has a metal case in his arms, a sheet of paper in one hand. The Commander peers into the case. “Pass them around.” He snatches the tattered sheet.
Yanevich hands me a ration packet. I laugh softly.
“Something wrong with it?” the Old Man asks.
“Emergency rations! This’s better stuff than we’ve been eating for three months.” I pull the heat tab. A minute later, I peel the foil and, lo!, a steaming meal.
It’s no gourmet delight. Something like potato hash including gristly gray chopped meat, a couple of unidentifiable vegetables, and a dessert that might be chocolate cake in disguise. The frosting on the cake has melted into the hash. I polish the tray, belch. “Damn, that was good!”
Yanevich gives each man a meal, then hands me another pack. They come forty-two to a case. He sets the last aside for the Chief. To my questioning frown, he says, “That’s for your buddy.”__
Out of nowhere, out of the secret jungles of metal, comes Fearless Fred, rubbing my shins and purring. I heat his pack, thieve the cake, place the tray on the deckplates. Fred polishes his tray in less time than I did mine.
The Commander hasn’t quit staring at the sheet Yanevich brought. Now he passes it to me, heats his own ration pack.
Just a list of figures. Water, so much. Cracked hydrogen, so much. CT, fourteen minutes available Climb time...
I’ll be damned. That Varese is a classic. He swore we had no CT. And there’s twice the hydrogen he admitted was available. I look up. Through a mouthful, Yanevich says, “I twisted Diekereide, not Varese. Varese wouldn’t have admitted it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gets a little carried away, doesn’t he?”
“I feel better now,” the Old Man says. He tosses his tray into the empty ration case. Yanevich makes the rounds, cleaning up. We’re all doing our share of odd jobs. We have to take up the slack left by the departures of Picraux and Brown.
I can’t imagine how Varese is managing.
I seldom visit Engineering. Afraid Varese and I will get into it. We barely tolerate each other in the wardroom. ‘I don’t understand it. We’ve no real cause.
Yanevich shakes me awake. He wears a pale grin. “Sleeping on station, eh?”
Of course. We all have for weeks. “I don’t think I could find my hammock anymore. Foreign territory. What’s up?”
“Corvette changed course. CPA fifty-five thousand klicks. Commander figures it means trouble.”
br /> “Jesus. What’d we ever do to those guys?”
He grins. “They probably said the same thing at Rathgeber.”
“Yeah.”
“You’d better figure this scow is number one on their shit list. The Executioner is back...” He pauses. Then, “Sometimes I think he’s a renegade.”
“What?”
“His style. He gets involved.”
“Uhm. How’s the Chief doing?”
“One more trip.”
I punch a few keys, pan camera across Canaan’s end of the sky. The big show is still smoking. “How?”
“The Old Man will think of something.”
Come on, Steve. Not you too. You’re a big boy. You’ll be the Old Man yourself your next time around.
The Commander joins us. He looks washed out again. “Real skyshow, eh? Berberian says the ‘vette acts shot-up. Canzoneri agrees. Hyper generators and comm out. No missiles. Else they’d be climbing our backs. This’s a popular station.”
“Think they’ll leave us alone?”
“We look too easy to take.”
“She’ll be in best fire configuration in five minutes, Commander,” Berberian announces.
“Very well.” The Old Man visits Westhause, then Canzoneri. “Battle stations.” We’re on station already. He tells me, “Get the Chief back inside.”
Yanevich watches over Throdahl’s shoulder. The radioman has started logging the traffic he copies. The First Watch Officer selects some notes and brings them to me. Reading them is like painting by the numbers. A picture slowly appears.
The squadrons which attacked the convoy back when were very successful. So were two more which made a follow-up strike after the first three broke off. One note is especially interesting. “Commander, the Eight Ball did it again.”
“How so?” He seems only mildly intrigued.
“Brought he-^e another six stars. Two red and four white.” Meaning she took out two warships and four logistic hulls.
“Uhm. Henderson is a good man.”
Down toward the Inner Worlds they’re trying something unique. Second Fleet is raiding Thompson’s System. The heavies are laying back, guarding a flotilla of mothers, tankers, and tenders from which the Climbers are jumping off. They’re even rearming in space. Interesting.
Wonder if we’ll have any Climbers left when the dust settles.
Nicastro is on. “Get your butt in here, Chief. Looks like trouble.” I watch him float over, steering the last carton of rations.
Damn, but I feel better. Amazing how a few cases can boost a man’s morale.
“Coming up to optimum, Commander,” Berberian says.
“Very well. Stand by, Mr. Westhause. Is the Chief in yet?”
“He’s at the lock, Commander.”
“Mr. Varese, get Nicastro inside.”
“Oh, damn!” Berberian snarls. “Commander, they faked us. Missiles launching. Flight of four.”
“Velocity to compute. Time till arrival, Canzoneri.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Feed to astrogation.”
Westhause surveys the compartment. His gaze meets mine. He smiles, returns to work.
I watch the four red darts streak through the tank. At one hundred gees they won’t be long arriving.
“Chief’s inside,” Varese announces.
“Ready, Mr. Westhause?”
“Ready, Commander.”
“Engineering, shift to annihilation.”
“Engineering, aye.”
We’re going to Climb?... That’s right. They ‘fessed up to having some CT. But how much good can it do?
Canzoneri does the counting down. “Missiles arrive in thirty seconds.” Where did the time go?
“Can we do it, Mr. Westhause?”
“I have enough data, sir. If she doesn’t go hyper.”
“I don’t think she was lying about that. There’re enough drive anomalies to indicate bad generators.”
“Ten seconds,” the Chief computerman says. “Five...”
Alarms hoot. I hear his three and two, then we’re going up.
Six minutes later we’re down again, so close the corvette fills my screen as the gun cameras lock. Lightning bolts span the gap separating us. At this range it won’t matter if her screens are up.
The Old Man laughs. “We lied to you, too, hunter-man. We had CT left.”
Red sores appear off the corvette’s flank. One, near her fly-eye bows, bulges outward, erupts. A shower of junk sprays through the gap.
Alarm. Ghost world again. The Commander is beside me. “Down to Weapons, boy. We got nothing but your toy now. Ito has to cool his beamers. Go for her drives. Come on! Up now. Go along.”
I hear him arguing with Westhause as I push through the Weapons hatch. Sounds like Westhause wants to run while we have Climb time left.
I fling myself into the seat at the cannon board. Piniaz has it warmed already. The target data is flowing. I break the arming locks, scan the compartment. Only Piniaz seems unperturbed. I flip to manual. I’ll do this myself.
Alarm.
Damn! I’m not ready!
There she is. The stars beyond her say we’re down opposite the flank we hit before. Targeting rings amidships. Fire and try to drag my point of aim aft. Holes on the moth’s wings. “Too high!” I shout. “Got to get under the wing.”
A beam licks out from the corvette. It passes between can and torus. The ship rocks. A stay member glows and parts. I send a burst into the beam mount. “Down, damn it!” We’re moving, but too slowly.
This is mad. We’re two pit bulls with broken backs trying to sink our teeth in one another’s throats.
More sewing machine holes along the side of the corvette. Gas escaping through some. Wing apparently rising. We’re actually dropping. Fierce glow round the corvette’s drive vents as she puts on power.
Stitching moving aft fast. Targeting rings traversing the heat vents, swinging back. Christ! I could reach out and touch her, we’re so close.
Red lights across my board. “Ammunition gone!” I shout. “Get out of here.”
Hyper alarm. Another beam from the corvette. Wham! Launch Three ripped off the torus in a hail of echoing fragments. Launch Three, that caused so much trouble after Rathgeber. Hope the accelerator path wasn’t breached. We wouldn’t be able to Climb.
Ghosting.
It lasts only a few minutes. Down we go. Cameras searching, hunting the corvette. What’s she doing? Coming after us? There she is. Two thousand some klicks. Accelerating... nova!
Damn! Must’ve gotten a few marbles into her fusor room. A weak, ragged victory growl runs through Ops.
I pile out of my chair, only now realizing that I didn’t strap in. No one closed the Ops hatch either. I scramble through, slam it.
Yanevich is waiting, grinning. “Damned fine sniping for a one-legged intellectual.”
I grin myself. “Yeah. Hey. Another red star for the Old Man.”
The Commander is hanging over Westhause’s shoulder again, looking gloomy. Berberian and Cannon are talking at once. Fisherman shouts something. “Enjoy,” Yanevich says. “The party’s just beginning.”
11 End Game
There’s a stir in the display tank. They know a Climber has struck. They don’t know we’re harmless now. Their reaction seems to be a controlled panic.
Carmon goes to his broadest scale. Red and green blips swirl everywhere.
The Old Man is grumbling at Throdahl. Must be arguing with Command. There’s no way we can. make a rendezvous at Fuel Point. TerVeen is our only hope.
“Stand by to take hyper,” the Old Man says.
We have to jump. Have to get as close as we can. Maybe there’s a shred of Planetary Defense umbrella left. Long shot.
We could do a few zigzags and power down completely, go on emergency power, and drift in, but the men aren’t up to a norm crossing. The best we could hope for, Canzoneri says, is a nine-day passage. Through the heat and heart of battle.
&nb
sp; No thank you. That’s a suicide run.
Do we have enough hydrogen to jump and make adjustments in inherent velocity when we get close?... Why worry? Command may not send tugs into the crucible for a lone, beat-up Climber they don’t want there anyway.
The Commander appears only mildly concerned. He’s started another up cycle. Telling weak jokes. Asking Throdahl and Rose for the addresses of those girls they’re always bragging about. “Jump, Mr. Westhause. Maximum translation ratio.”
Oh-oh. We have company. Nuclear greetings are headed our way.
Our chances look longer all the time. I don’t think we’ll make it.
It’s been one hell of an interesting mission-----
The Commander is beside me. “Go get your notes.”
“Sir?”
“Get your stuff together. Stow it in a ration case under your seat.”
I move down to Ship’s Services, strip my hammock in seconds. “What’s going on out there?” Bradley asks. He doesn’t know we’ve just shot it out with a corvette, and that a missile flight is closing in.
Kriegshauser is right behind him. “Give it to us straight,” he pleads.
I sketch it. “It doesn’t look good. But you can count on the Old Man.”
That seems assurance enough. The Ship’s Services people are unshakable. Maybe they were selected for that.
I pause as I pass through Weapons. Piniaz looks grim. He forces a smile. One hand drifts to my shoulder. “Been all right, Lieutenant. Good luck. Just write it the way it was.”
A hell of a gesture for the little man. “I will, Ito. I promise.”
I settle my things under the First Watch Officer’s seat. Pity I can’t make peace with Varese, too.
“What’s happened?” I ask Fisherman. The mausoleum silence of Ops demands a soft voice.
“Getting worse.” His screen is a-crawl with hyper wakes. The pencil strokes characteristic of high-translation ratio missiles spaghetti through the mess. We’re cruising the middle of a barn-burner. Both sides have gone kill-crazy.
Chung!
Chung!
“What the hell is that?”
Chung!
Sounds like some mischievous child-deity is hammering the hull with a god-sized gong-beater.