Passage at Arms (26 page)

Kinder and Gentemann are Canaanites. They have homes and families. It doesn’t seem right to risk them. Gentemann is a sensible choice, though. He’s the ship’s Machinist.

They realign the Seven missile in forty minutes. Eleven isn’t jammed. It lifts to ready without difficulty. Holtsnider studies the riser arm. He says it should lift if it’s properly adjusted.

“Commander!”

Fisherman’s shout rocks the ship.

Junghaus has been distracted by die working party. He hasn’t been watching his screen.

“Goddamned! That mother’s really coming!” Throdahl yelps.

“Varese!” the Commander shouts. “CT shift. Mr. West-hause, all departments, stand by for Emergency Climb.”

“Commander...” Varese protests. Five men are outside. Their chances are grim if they slip out of the field or the ship stays up long.

“Now, Lieutenant.” I can’t tell if he’s growling at Varese or Westhause. The astrogator is the sick color of old ivory piano keys.

Fisherman’s screen looks bad.

“Right down our throats. Couldn’t miss us if they were blind.” The Old Man has done his sums. He’s balancing five lives against forty-four. The men won’t like it but they’ll live long enough to bitch. “Shitty fucking luck.”

That damned ship is going to land in our pocket. Fisherman, where the hell was your mind? Why the shit didn’t you have your buzzer on?

The frightened questions from the working party end abruptly when we hit hyper. Radio is useless here. Nor is there anything when we flash into the ghost abode. The men remain silent. They exchange guarded glances.

Holtsnider comes through on the intercom links used by inspection personnel in wetdock. A quick thinker, the Chief. His voice is calm. It has a relaxing effect.

“Operations, working party. Commander, how long will we stay in Climb?” Fear underlies Holtsnider’s words, but he’s in control. He’s a good soldier. He sticks to his job and lets a narrow focus see him through the tight places.

“Give me that,” the Commander says softly. “I’ll cut it as short as I can, Chief. We’ve been jumped by a singleship. We’ll drop back when we have her going into her turn. Be ready to come in. How’re you doing out there?”

“I think we lost Haesler, Commander. He was clowning on tether. The rest of us are in the launch bay.”

Poor Haesler. Floating free nine lights from nowhere. The ship gone. Must be scared shitless right now.

“How’s your oxygen, Chief?”

“Manolakos is down to a half hour. We can share if we have to. Say an hour.”

“Good enough. Hang on.” Mutedly, “Mr. Westhause, go norm as soon as your numbers show her going away.”

“Fourteen minutes, Commander.”

“We go norm in mikes fourteen, Chief,” the Old Man repeats for Holtsnider’s benefit. “We won’t have a big window. Start Manolakos in now. Safety line him with the man next shortest on oxygen. The rest of you double-check that Eleven bird. Then start in too. Don’t waste time. We’re borrowing it now. We’ll have to do some fancy dancing to pick up Haesler and dodge this singleship, too.”

“Understood, Commander. I’ll keep this line open.”

“Balls!” Picraux growls, punching a cross-member. I can’t tell if he’s cursing the situation or commending Chief Holt-snider.

I’ve never heard of anyone’s going outside in Climb. “Anyone tried this before?” I ask Yanevich.

“Never heard of it.”

No one knows how far beyond the ship’s skin the effect extends. It might slice the universe off a millimeter away. Anyone who leaves that launch bay stands a chance of joining Haesler.

Manolakos and Kinder are convinced that will happen.

Everyone overhears Holtsnider’s half of the argument. The protests of his men are too muted to make out. They’re communicating by touching helmets.

The discussion is bitter, embarrassing; and, I suspect, each of my shipmates is wondering if he’d have the guts to try it.

One of them breaks down. We hear him crying, begging.

“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-killer 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.”