There was no response. The system was dead, and Longbow was on her own.
Hwhirled to another console, jerking a red lever, and his suit whuffed out as blast doors slammed and emergency hatches blew. The fire died instantly, smoke, oxygen, and fuel alike snatched away by vacuum, and only then did he wonder why he'd been left to throw the switch. That was Commander Sung's job He looked down and retched into his helmet.
Less than half Sung's body lay there, and the fragment which remained was shriveled into something less than human. Reznick sobbed and dragged himself away, nostrils full of the smell of his own vomit as he crawled across the gutted compartment through the shattered circuitry and molten cables. Surely someone was still alive?
"Datalink gone, sir! Point Defense One no longer responds! Main Fire Control's out of the circuit! Heavy casualties in Auxiliary Fire Control!" Han merely nodded as the litany of disaster crashed over her. Longbow was dying-only a miracle could save her ship now. She glanced at the plot, frozen in the instant her scanners went out. One fort was gone and one was badly damaged, but the third remained. Magda Petrovna was here, furiously engaging the remaining fortifications, and it looked as if all her ships were intact. And Kellerman's carriers were launching; she'd seen the tiny dots of strikefighters going out even as her display locked. But
BG 12 was gutted. Bardiche and Falchion were gone, and Longbow was savagely mauled. She had a vague memory of an Omega report on Yellowjacket, and it horrified her to realize she couldn't remember when the escort destroyer had died.
"Withdraw, Mister Chu," she said harshly.
"There's nothing more we can do." Longbow turned to limp brokenly away.
Han's shock frame broke as a massive concussion threw her from her chair. She turned in midair like a cat, landing in a perfect roll and bouncing back onto her feet in an instant. Lieutenant Chu was draped over his console--it took only a glance at his shattered helmet and grotesquely twisted spine to know she could do nothing for him. Lieutenant Kan heaved himself out of the ruin of his fire control panel, one hand slamming a patch over a hissing hole in his vac suit sleeve. Tsing was there, and five ratings. The rest of her bridge crew was dead.
She was still turning towards Tsing when the drive field died. There was no way to pass damage reports to what remained of her bridge, but she needed no reports now; the loss of the field meant the next warhead would vaporize her ship. There was no time for fear or pain or to oss. Not now. Her chin thrust down on the helmet switch, and her voice reached every, living ear remaining aboard her ship.
"Condition Omega! Abandon ship! Abandon ship!" she said, her voice almost as calm and dispassionate as when the action began. "Aban--was Longbow's fractured hull screamed as another force beam ripped across her command section, shattering plating and flesh. The shock picked Han up and hurled her against a bulkhead, and darkness smashed her under.
Han's vision cleared. She felt hands on her arms and looked around dazedly. Tsing held her to eft arm, Kan her right, and the thunder of their suit packs came to her through their bodies as they fought for their lives and hers. She tried to reach her own pack controls, but she was weak, numb, washed out. They were risking their lives for her, and she wanted to order them to save themselves, but he had nothing left to give. She could only stare back at the gutted, shattered ruin of her splendid ship, her beautiful ship, her tremendous, vital, living Longbow, dying behind her.
Point Defense Two was still in action, its Marine crew ignoring her bailout order as they fought to delay the moment o pounds destruction--to give their fellows time to clear the lethal zone of the impending fireball, and tears clouded her eyes as she watched their hopeless battle. She should be with them.
She should he there with her people. And howmany of her other people lay dead within her beautiful, broken ship? How many o left-brace her family had she left behind?
The question was still driving through her as the missile struck. It took Longbow amidships--not that it mattered to the defenseless hulk. Hah had a brief impression of fury and brilliance and light before her helmet polarized and cut off her-vision. Then the fireball reached out to claim her, and there was only darkness.
CASUALTY Li Han woke unwillingly. There was something horrible, she thought in drowsy terror. Something waiting-- She opened her eves to a pastel ceiling and brilliant sun patterns, dancing ad leaping as the window curtains fluttered, and relief filled her.
It had been a bad dream. She raised a hand to her forehead. A nightmare. If it had been real, she'd be dead. And she wasn't even...
Her hand slid over her forehead, and her eyes widened in horror, for she had no eyebrows. Her hand moved higher, trembling with the tactile memory of long, sleek hair.., but there was no hair.
The discovery slashed awav her drowsiness, and ivory,-knuckled fists clenched. It had happened, and tears burned as her broken heart railed at a universe cruel enough to spare her from her beautiful Longbow's destruction.
But long years of mental discipline chided the extravagance of her grief. The universe moved as it would; it was neither kind nor cruel, and all it asked of her was that she play her own part against its vast impartiality,. Her pale lips murmured mind-focusing mnemonics, channeling grief in a technique which had served her well over the years, but this time it took over an hour to approach calm.
Yet calm came at last, and her eyes opened once more. She was in a hospital, she thought, turning to the window. On a planet with a small, warm sun that could be neither planefiess Aklumar nor cool, barren lssa and so must be
Cimmaon. Which meant that the Republic had won... or lost. She smiled with a ghost of real humor as she pondered the question. Was she a victorious hero in a conquered hospital? Or a miserable POW, doctored by her captors? There was ongg'ity one way to find out, and she reached for the call button, dismayed by the languid, weary weakness o pounds her muscles.
Her door opened within seconds, and she turned her naked head slowly, blinking against tears and light dazzle, as a woman in nursing whites entered. It took endgg'ess seconds to clear her eyes enough to read the tiny letters etched across the nurse's medical branch caduceus. "rRN," they said.
So they'd won; no Rump commander would permit POW'S to wear the Republic's insignia, and her eyes closed again as relief ate at her frail reserves. Then she felt cool fingers in the ages-old, feathery touch as her pulse was checked and forced her eyes back open, staring up into a plain, serene face.
"How--was Her throat was dry and she felt a sudden surge of nausea, but she tried again, grimly. "How long?" she husked, and the rusty croak which had replaced her soprano appalled her.
"A little over a week, Commodore," the nurse said calmly, and offered her a tumbler of half-melted ice. She held the plastic straw to Han's cracked lips, and Hah sucked avidly, coughing as the water ran down her desiccated throat. It was only when the nurse finally removed the straw, gently disengaging Han's weak fingers from their almost petulant, childlike grip, that her words penetrated.
A week.t Impossible! And yet...
"A week?" she repeated, cursing the haziness of her thoughts.
"Yes, Commodore," the nurse said serenely, and touched a switch. The bed rose under Han's shoulders, and she clutched suddenly at the side rails, eyes rounding in pure astonishment as vertigo flashed through her.
"Too much?" The nurse released the button quickly, but Han shook her head almost viciously.
She was a naval officer, and no hospital bed was going to make her whoop her cookies! The nurse watched her a moment, then shrugged and held the button down until Hah sat bolt upright, wondering dizzily if her pride was worth such physical distress.
But the vertigo slowly diminished. The bed still seemed to curtsy gently and nausea still rippled, but it was better. Perhaps if she told herself that often enough she would even believe it. She focused with some difficulty on the nurse's nameplate.
"Lieutenant Tinnamou--" "Yes, Commodore?" "Mirror?" Han husked. The lieutenant's eyes remained
serene, but Hah saw the doubt and forced her hurtful lips into a smile. "I--can handle it." "All right." The nurse produced a small mirror. It seemed to weigh fifty kilos, but Han managed to raise it and peer at the stranger it held.
Her eyes were huge holes in a thin, gray-green face, sores covered her lips, and 'dark mottled patches disfigured her complexion.
Her hairless skull seemed obscene and tiny on the bony column of her neck, and her collarbone was a sharp ridge at the neck of her hospital gown.
Rad poisoning. She'd seen it before, but, her detached, dizzy mind decided calmly, she'd never seen anyone look worse and live. Her brain went back to that final nightmare instant of consciousness, seeing her helmet polarize again.
Close, she thought. Her impression of the fireball reaching out for her was all too close to the truth.
"Captain Tsing?" she asked hoarsely. "Lieutenant Kan?" "Both alive, Commodore," Lieutenant Tinnamou said briskly, reclaiming the mirror. But she laid it conveniently on the bedside table, and Han felt pathetically grateful. The gesture seemed to imply confidence in her ability to endure what it had shown her.
"Hhow bad?" She gestured weakly at herself.
"Not good, sir, but you'll make it. I'd rather let your doctor give you the whole picture." "When?" "He's on his way now," the lieutenant said.
"I expect-- The door hissed open and a small, cherub-faced man bounced in, smiling so hugely she wondered whether she ISVSSECTO was mole amused by his antics or resentful of his abundant energy.
"Good morning, Commodore Li!" he said briskly, and her eyes widened at the harsh, sharp-edged vowels of his New Detroit accent.
They dropped almost involuntarily to his uniform insignia.
"Yes," he grinned wryly, "I'm one of those damned loyalists, Commodore. But then--was his smile turned gently mocking his-- uniforms don't matter much to us kindly healers. I can find you a good, honest rebel if you like, but I'm really quite a good doctor." His ironic tone touched something inside her, and her cracked lips quivered.
"Much better!" he chuckled, crossing his arms and looking down at her. "I'm Captain Llewellyn, by the way. Pleased to meet you at last. I've been in and out for the last week or so, but you've only been out." "How bad?" Han asked hoarsely.
"Could be worse," he said frankly, "but not a lot. It was all touch and near-as-damn-it-go, actually. At the moment, you weigh about twenty-eight kilos." She flinched, but her eyes were steady, and he nodded approval.
"You were lucky it was only a nice, clean fighter missile,"" he went on. "On the other hand, you'd already have checked out of our little hotel ff you'd had the shielding of an escape pod. I understand the bridge pods were buckled and your crew got you out just in time, as it were." "H-how many?" she husked.
"From the bridge?" He looked at her compassionately. "Five counting you." She winced, and he went on quickly. "But overall, you did much better. Over half your crew got out safely." Her lips twisted. He was right, of course; fifty percent was a miraculous figure. But ff over half had survived, almost half had not.
"As for you, you got an awful dose, but your chief of staff seems to have unusual tad tolerance. He got you and your lieutenant picked up and hooked to blood exchangers in time, but even so, it was a rough forty-eight hours. We've managed to scrub you out pretty well, and the cell count looks okay, but it was tight, ma'am. Really, really tight." "Don't look much like I made it anyway," Han rasped. "Ah." Llewellyn nodded. "You are a bit the worst for wear, Commodore. We doctors should, after all, be honest. But you'll improve quickly now we can get you off the IV'S and put a little weight back on you." He examined her face critically and rose briskly. "But for now, I want you to go back to sleep. I know, I know--was he waved aside her half-voiced protests his-comy just got here. Well, the planet isn't going anywhere, and neither are you. We've got you scrubbed out, but you have seven broken ribs, a cracked cheekbone, a fractured femur, and a skull fracture--just for starters. I'm afraid you're going to take a while healing up from that." Hah blinked at him, wondering where the pain was.
They must have her loaded to the gills with painkillers, she decided, which helped explain her wooziness. His last words seemed to echo around a vast, dark cavern, and she realized dimly that the cavern was her own skull. She blinked again and let herself sink into the lightheadedness. The sun patterns on the ceiling danced above her, weaving the pattern of her dreams.
The next few days were bad. Hah was sick and dizzy, and she hated her surrounding forest of scrubbers and monitors. The instruments were silent, but she knew they were there--probing and peering for the firs sign of uncorrected damage. They were part of the technology which kept her alive, and she hated them because they were part of what confined her to her bed.
It took long, hard effort to attain her normal calm, and it slipped away abruptly, without warning. She hated her loss of control almost as much as she did her weakness, and that loss showed when Lieutenant Tinnamou refused to let her visit Tsing Chang.
Hah tried reason. It didn't work, so she pulled rank, only to find that medicos are remarkably impervious to intimidation. And finally, she resorted to a hell-raising tantrum which would have shocked anyone who knew her and, in fact, shocked her--but not as much as the flood of tears which followed.
That stopped her dead. She fell back on her pillows, exhausted by the expenditure of emotion, and her emaciated form shook with the force of her sobs.
She turned her face away from the nurse's compassionate eyes, and the ('ieutenaht frowned down at her for a moment, then stepped out into the hall.
Han heard the door close with gratitude, for her reactions both shamed and frightened her. How could she exercise command over others if she could no longer command herself.
But then the door opened again and someone cleared his throat. Her head snapped back over, and Captain Llewellyn looked down at her, his cherub's face incongruously stern.
"I suppose, Commodore, that we could call this 'conduct unbecoming an officerHis--but I'm old-fashioned. Let's just call it childish." "I know," she husked and turned her head away addain. "I'm sorry. Just--just go away.
I-I'll be all right... His "Will you, now?" His voice was sternly compassionate.
"I thiea.k not. Not, at least, until you accept that you're merely human and entitled as such to moments of weakness." "It's not that," she protested, scrubbing her eyes with balled fists like a child. "I... to mean..
." "Yes, it is," he said gently. "I've checked your record, Commodore. Sword of honor. Youngest captain in Battle Fleet.
Stellar Cross. Headed for the War College, but for the current... unpleasantness. And that's only the official record. There's also your crew." "My--crew?" It popped out involuntarfiy, and she bit her tongue, cursing her crumbling self-control.
"The survivors have had our visitors" desk under siege ever since your arrival. If I hadn't put my foot down, you'd've been buried under well-wishers---wh, since I don't want you plain buried, I'm not about to permit! But' my point is simple: amassing that record and winning that loyalty says a lot about your personality," His voice grew suddenly gentle. "You're not used to being helpless, are you?" Hah turned away, horribly embarrassed, but his ques- tion demanded an answer. And she owed him one for keeaenceeaqeaong,, her alive, she supposed fretfully. she said shortly.
"I thought not. Which explains exactly why you're react- ing this way," he said simply, and Han turned back towards
"Perhaps," she said levelly, "hut it loesn't help that you haven't told me everything, either, Doctor." Llewellyn's face stilled at the accusation, and his eyes narrowed.
"Why do you think that, Commodore?" he asked finally, his tone neutral.
"I don't know," she confessed bitterly, "but you haven't, have you?" "No." His simple response surprised her, for she'd expected him to waffle. But she'd done the little Corporate Worlder an injustice; he was as utterly incapable of evading a direct question as she herself.
"And what haven't you told me?" "I think you know
already," he said quietly. "You just haven't let yourself face it. I'd hoped you wouldn't for a while, but you're more bloody-minded than I thought," he added, and a door opened in her mind-- a door she had been holding shut with all her strength even as she hammered against it.
He was right, she thought distantly. She did know.
Her hand crept over the blankets across her belly, and he nodded.
"Yes," he said gently, and her teeth drew blood from her lip.
"How bad is it?" she asked finally, her hoarse voice level.
"Not good," he said honestly. "A high percentage of your ova are sterile; others are badly damaged. On the other hand, some are perfectly,, normal, Commodore. You can still bear healthy children.
"At what odds?" she asked bitterly.
"Not good ones," he met her eyes squarely, his voice unflinching, "but you know about the problem. It wouldn't be difficult to check the embryos and abort defectives at a very early stage." "I see." She looked away, and Llewellyn started to reach out, then stopped as he recognized the nature of her withdrawal. She wasn't dropping deeper into depression; she was merely digesting what she had been told.