Lieutenant (12 page)

I never expected the Imperials to come Jumping back through at us the moment their destroyers arrived back home with the bad news, and they didn’t. War plans are complex, carefully-laid-out things based on highly specialized and limited resources, and they can’t easily be significantly altered once put into motion. Almost certainly the Imperials had assumed that retaking the still-ruined Station would be a walkover—the clearest evidence of this was that they’d sent just the three destroyers. Therefore, it followed, they’d allocated their troops and even more precious assault ships elsewhere. And, of course, they only had one line-of-battle fleet; large warships were ruinously expensive. Their big ships were almost certainly somewhere far away, counterbalancing their Royal equivalents and therefore unavailable for other tasks. Yet these were exactly the resources it’d take to neutralize Zombie, even though it was only functional in a limited way. It’d be months, I reckoned, before a serious attack could be mounted against us. All that time, however, the Imperial convoys and other vital military traffic would be backing up. Certainly the admirals on the other side would feel compelled to do something about that.

But what?

22

“David to the bridge!” a lapine voice rang out over the Station annunciator late one Sunday night about three weeks after the destroyers vanished. It was Fremont; in addition to their other duties his Rabbits were now monitoring the Station’s sensors. That made them improvised watchkeepers, or at least the nearest thing I had. “David to the bridge!”

I rolled over and blinked my bleary eyes; it was just past midnight, and I’d been asleep for perhaps an hour. Good rest had been terribly hard to come by lately, not least because my belly was continually rumbling and gurgling for lack of good hay. Even worse, Fremont and his gang were still terribly uncertain about when I should and shouldn’t be called, so they did so far too often. “What is it?” I asked patiently into the comm-link conveniently built into the head of my bed—I was sleeping in the former commander’s quarters for that very reason.

“Something has Jumped into local space, sir. It’s moving fast.”

“Right,” I agreed, rolling out of bed. “I’ll come.” At least it wasn’t just a high enviro-tank pressure reading this time!

By the time I arrived at our improvised command center down in Tunnel Zero—it consisted of little but a sensor-station and primitive communications console—I was at least slightly more awake. “Here,” Nestor said, appearing out of nowhere and pressing a warm, fragrant cup into my hand.

“Thanks,” I replied, accepting the cup like a gift from the gods. I’d never, ever figure out how Nestor managed to produce the stuff out of seemingly nowhere, again and again and again. It was human tea, far too strong for any of the other Rabbits. But I’d had more experience with exotic foods than the rest, and had recently discovered that certain teas helped ease my troubled stomach. Besides, it was loaded to the gills with caffeine. This seemed like a wonderful idea indeed just then. I took a sip and felt the first mental clouds begin to dissipate. “You ought to make yourself a cup too, and force it down. It’d do you good—you’re eating the same garbage I am.”

Nestor smiled and nodded, but I knew he’d never do it. Even though I was probably right about it being good for his belly—he was consuming the same moldy stuff I was, and refused everything else. “Perhaps later, sir.”

I sighed and turned to other, more urgent matters. “You were right to call me, Fremont,” I began. My standard routine when summoned to the bridge was to gently explain to whichever Rabbit was in charge whether they’d done right or wrong, and why. They had to learn, and this was the best way I could think of to help them along. “Thank you.”

He smiled and sat up a little straighter. “This time it was pretty easy to figure out, sir.” Then he turned a knob and a blip appeared on a tiny, improvised viewscreen. “It’s squawking Imperial. And moving very fast.”

I leaned over his shoulder and scowled. “That’s a spy-ship,” I explained. “All thrusters and super-sensors, no weapons. We can’t do much except to let them take their pictures. Though again, you were right to call me.”

Fremont nodded. “This is what you said we should probably expect next.”

I stepped over to our improvised communications center. The original electronics had been wiped out due to an EMP in an earlier attack, so I had to physically move a little plug as in the days of old. “Engineering!” I said into the microphone. “Are you there, Chief?”

Aboard an active ship of war or fully operational Station, the delay would’ve been long enough to be unforgiveable. But the chief was working every bit as hard as I was under equally poor conditions, and was probably even deeper asleep. “Yes, David?” he finally replied.

“We have company,” I explained. “Just a little recon ship—I’m not going to call general quarters over it. But… Initiate Head Game One.”

There was another short pause, and I could easily picture Lancrest grinning into the darkness with his hair pointing all which-way and three days worth of beard from where he hadn’t had time to shave. Head Game One had been his idea, one I’d instantly approved. “Sure thing, David! I’ll see to it at once.”

“What’s he going to do, sir?” Fremont asked in his usual friendly way—I hadn’t attempted to teach my fellow Rabbits bridge-discipline, or anything remotely like when and how to salute and say ‘aye-aye sir’. Not only did spit-and-polish fail to match up with the kind of brotherly relationship that our special circumstances dictated, but I wouldn’t have had time if I’d tried. So instead of simply demanding silence in the command center like almost any other officer would’ve, I answered his question.

“Our friends on the other side are taking pictures of us just as fast they can,” I explained. “When they get home a bunch of highly-trained bigwigs will spend hour after hour studying them. Normally we’d just play dead and let them infer whatever they’re able from what we can’t help but show. The chief, however, had a brainstorm. We’re going to stimulate their imaginations, you see. And with luck, their paranoia.”

Fremont blinked, but asked no more questions. He did remain on the bridge, however, when his relief came in and took over about two hours later so that he could watch. Just then, about thirty minutes before the Imperial scout was at its point of closest approach Lancrest reported in. “Here we go, David!”

I smiled as the tiny viewscreen changed over to the “Engineering Status” readout I was so familiar with from my days as an apprentice. First our navigational lights blinked, one sector at a time and then several at once in no discernable pattern at all. ‘What can it mean?’ I could almost hear the Imperial brass asking itself for hours on end, when in fact it meant nothing at all. Then Lancrest diverted the main power to the Station’s armament, and slowly our single battered turret began to swing. The charging banks were coupled to wreckage, of course; though the chief was busily at work on that little problem, for the moment all we were doing was wasting an incredible amount of power. The spy-vessel’s sensors, advanced as they undoubtedly were, couldn’t possibly determine what was still broken and what wasn't deep down in Zombie's guts. All they could detect was the pre-firing power surge. Suddenly the little ship was dancing through the sky on a complex evasive course.

“Now,” Lancrest declared, just as the useless turret swung into line with the supposed target. Right on schedule the main breakers tripped out and we suffered a simulated critical power failure. Only the emergency systems and controls remained on-line.

“Beautiful, Chief!” I whispered as the scout ship danced and whirled, still reluctant to resume a steady course. “Outstanding, even! Fantastic work! Far better they should think we’re having difficulty firing than that we can’t fire at all.” Then I stood and sipped tea and tried not to think about fresh, sweet hay as the enemy vessel finished its sweep and Jumped back out of our universe.

23

It was sixteen and a half days before our playmates returned. This time I happened to already be down in the command center anyway, explaining a new systems readout to Fremont’s right-hand bun Douglas. Suddenly
Bip! Bip! Bip!
one after another eleven Imperial ships appeared in local space in tight formation. “Man your battle stations, everyone!” I personally declared into the Station’s annunciator circuit. “All hands to your battle stations!”

It didn’t take long to figure out what the enemy was up to this time around; the chief’s station was the most difficult to prepare for action, and by the time he reported in we already knew what we were dealing with. Two of the Imperials were destroyers and the rest nice slow merchantmen. Presumably our enemies still didn’t have any heavy units or an assault force at hand, but traffic was so backed up they were willing to gamble on pushing a convoy through anyway. I had to respect them for that; it was gutsier than anything our own high command would likely attempt, if I were any judge. But they’d made one key mistake, and that was to enter Zombie space via the same node that practically all of their navy had used during the last war. Many of our ‘dead’ guns had been knocked out while engaging Imperial vessels traveling along precisely this same relative track…

…and by dint of heroic efforts one of them wasn’t quite so dead anymore. It was a pity the weapon could neither traverse nor elevate. Beggars, however, could hardly be choosers.

“Fire when she bears, Chief,” I ordered. “Or anything reasonably close, as we discussed.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Lancrest replied, sounding terribly distracted. He was working out his fire-control solutions on a pocket-comp, and his primary aiming-device was a high-magnification camera slaved to servos not half up to the required level of accuracy. While a hit couldn’t be ruled out entirely, it was terribly unlikely and we all knew it. But we didn’t
need
a hit to win. All we had to do was tie up traffic. Every single day we forced the vital supply ships to go the long way around upset the Imperial war plans and therefore cost them immeasurably.

Boom!
the engineer’s single gun roared out, after such a long delay we’d begun to wonder if the jury-rigged power-routing had failed. The searing-red large-caliber laser-bolt flashed out…

…and passed just under the second-largest merchantman in the group. Immediately all the Imperials maneuvered wildly, suddenly finding themselves lying close under functional heavy guns just about the time they must’ve convinced themselves that all was well. Even the destroyers, impotent against our thick armor, jinked and swerved all over the sky. Then we fired another round, which by sheer luck missed a smaller cargo vessel by even less of a margin than we had the first.

That was all it took. The Imperial formation, already stretched far out of shape, fell apart entirely. A destroyer collided with the first ship we’d aimed at; it was only a glancing blow but enough to land them both in the yard for weeks. Then Lancrest loosed a third round, which came near nothing but encouraged even more jinking. It would’ve taken several more hours for the Imperials to get past us, and they weren’t yet anywhere near their point of closest approach. Plus the cargos must’ve been valuable ones indeed, or else they’d not’ve been rushed along in this manner. Therefore, given what the Imperial commander knew it was perfectly sensible for him to turn and run for home.

And that’s exactly what he did. Even though we couldn’t have so much as scorched the paint on his ships’ plates had he chosen to boldly press on.

24

It was almost another month before we saw another ship; a long, sickly and miserable month. When grasses first evolved, scientists believe, almost nothing with a backbone was capable of digesting such cellulose-packed material. Eventually, however, many different methods evolved for coping with the stuff. In almost every case the end result was a digestive tract so highly specialized that soon it couldn’t function
without
grass. Small-‘r’ rabbits were no exception to this rule; deny them hay and they’ll die horribly in short order. While we gengineered types were somewhat better off than our ancestors in this and other important regards, hay remained our basic, irreplaceable staple. Soon my constantly-gurgling and upset stomach went into open revolt, and I began passing bloody stools. It was so bad that I was forced to up my hay ration despite the general shortage, and everyone else’s as well to prevent a general outbreak. I got a little better after that, but my fur continued to fall out in handfuls, I broke out in itchy sores, my weight dropped like a high-speed elevator, and sometimes I experienced difficulty thinking clearly. The same could be said for all the rest of the Rabbits as well, though to a somewhat lesser degree because their food was of better quality. It was obvious that the increased ration was the bare, absolute minimum and might yet need to be enlarged further before all was said and done; all over the Station I was discovering gnawed-up bits of carpeting and textiles where the bunnies had desperately sought more fiber to ingest. So when the Imperials finally showed, I was actually glad to see them. At least they were a distraction from our suffering, if only a temporary one.

I'd just finished calculating the date on which we’d all starve to death—about ninety more days, I reckoned—when the annunciator called me to the command center. There Nestor met me with my now-customary tea, and the caffeine helped bring me back to life while I took in the tactical situation.

“It’s just a single ship, sir,” Fremont explained, leaning back so I could look over his shoulder. “Squawking Royal codes.” He smiled. “Maybe they’ll have hay aboard?”

I didn’t answer, instead scowling intently at the readouts. The ship was a fast passenger liner, totally unarmed. And it’d entered local space from the single Jump-point that led back to Royal space. Liners were often commandeered by the navy and used as troopships; therefore a fast liner would indeed be just the thing to send out to regarrison and at least begin to rebuild Zombie. Yet… Wasn’t it awfully late in the game for her to be showing up? If she’d been sent a few weeks after us but before the war began, it was just barely feasible. That was the
only
way the timing made sense, however. And fitting out an expedition of such size for service so far from home required time and planning. You’d think they’d have let us know, so that we could have everything as ready for them as possible…