Passage at Arms (3 page)

My lights go out.

I have trouble understanding these people. They’ve reduced their language to euphemism and their lives to ritual. Their superstitions are marvelous. Their cant is unique. They are so silent and unresponsive that at first glance they appear insensitive.

The opposite is true. The peculiar nature of their service oversensitizes them. They refuse to show it. They are afraid to do so because caring opens chinks in the armor they have forged so their selves can survive.

The boomer drop was rough for me. I could see and hear Death on my backtrail. It was personal. Those droppers were after me.

Navy people seldom see the whites of enemy eyes. Line ships are toe to toe at 100,000 klicks. These men are extending the psychology of distancing.

Climbers sometimes do go in to hand-to-hand range. Close enough to blaze away with small arms if anyone wanted to step outside.

The Climber lexicon is adapted to depersonification, and to de-emotionalizing contact with the enemy. Language often substitutes for physical distance.

These people never fight the enemy. Instead, they compete with the other firm, or any of several similar euphemisms. Common euphemisms for enemy are the boys upstairs (when on Canaan), the gentlemen of the other firm, the traveling salesmen (I suppose because they’re going from world to world knocking on our doors), and a family of related notions. Nobody gets killed here. They leave the company, do any number of variations on a theme of early retirement, or borrow Hecate’s Horse. Nobody knows the etymology of the latter expression.

I’m trying to adopt the cant myself. Protective coloration. I try to be a colloquial chameleon. In a few days I’ll sound like a native and become as nervous as they do when someone speaks without circumlocution.

The Commander says the TerVeen go was a holiday junket. Like taking a ferry across a river. The gentlemen of the other firm were busy covering their dropships.

TerVeen isn’t a genuine moon. It’s a captive asteroid that has been pushed into a more circular orbit. It’s 283 kilometers long and an average 100 in diameter. Its shape is roughly that of a fat sausage. It isn’t that huge as asteroids go.

The support system wakened us when the lifter entered TerVeen’s defensive umbrella. There’re no viewscreens in our compartment, but I’ve seen tapes. The lifter will enter one of the access ports which give the little moon’s surface a Swiss cheese look. The planetoid serves not only as a Climber fleet base, but also as a factory and mine. The human worms inside are devouring its substance. One great big space apple, infested at the heart.

The process began before the war. Someone had the bright idea of hollowing TerVeen and using it as an industrial habitat. When completed, it was supposed to cruise the Canaan system preying on other asteroids. One more dream down the tubes.

The address system begins hurrying us up before everyone is completely awake. I spill out of my cocoon and windmill around, banging into a half-dozen people before I grab something solid. Almost zero gravity. There’s no spin on the asteroid. They didn’t warn me.

I don’t get a chance to complain. Yanevich tows me outside, down a ladder, and into an alcove separated from the docking bay by its own airlock. Yanevich will be our First Watch Officer. He checks names against an assignment roster as our people join us. There are a lot of obscene exchanges between our men and the ladies mustering along the way. These boys’ mothers would be shocked by their sons’ behavior. The mothers of the girls would disown their daughters.

I’m amazed by how young they all look. Especially the women. They shouldn’t know what men are for, yet... Christ! Are they that young or am I getting that old?

I ask one of my questions. “Why doesn’t the other firm bring in a Main Battle Fleet? It shouldn’t be that hard to scrub Canaan and a couple of moons.”

Yanevich ignores me. The Commander is studying faces and showing his own. Bradley is scooting around like a kid during his first day on a new playground. Westhause has the volunteer mouth again.

“They’re stretched too thin trying to blitz the Inner Worlds. The guys bothering us are trainees. They hang out here a couple of months, getting blooded, before they take on the big time. When we get out there it’ll be a different story. The reps on those routes are pros. There’s one Squadron Leader they call the Executioner. He’s the worst news since the Black Death.”

I’m getting tired of Westhause’s voice. It takes on a pedantic note when he knows you’re listening.

“Suppose they committed that MBF? It would have to come from inside. That would stall their offensive. If we carved it up, they’d lose the initiative. And we might cut them good.

Climbers get mean when they’re cornered.” A hint of pride has crept in here.

“Meaning they can’t afford to take time out to knock us off, but they can’t afford to leave us alone, either?”

The Commander scowls my way. I’m not using approved phraseology.

“Yeah. Containment. That’s the name of their game.”

“The holonets say we’re hurting them.”

“Damned right we are. We’re the only reason the Inner

Worlds are holding out. They’re going to do something...”

Westhause reddens under the Commander’s stony gaze. He has become too direct, too frank, and too enthusiastic. The Commander doesn’t approve of enthusiasm in the broader sense, only in enthusiasm for one’s job. And there it should be a subtle, low-key competence, not a rodeo holler.

“The statistics. They’re learning. Making it harder and harder. The easy days are over. The glory days. But we’re still building Climbers faster than they’re retiring them. New squadron gets commissioned next month.”

He leaves me to go exchange greetings with a small, very dark Lieutenant. There are few non-Causcasians in our crew. That would be because so many are native Canaanites. “Ito Piniaz,” Westhause says after the man departs. “Weapons Officer and Second Watch Officer. Good man. Doesn’t get along well, but very competent.” Just what the Old Man had to say. “Where was I?”

I hear Yanevich murmur, “Flushing the tunnel with hot air.” Westhause doesn’t catch his remark.

“Oh. Yeah. Time. That’s what it’s all about. We’re all racing the hourglass of attrition.”

“Jesus,” the Commander mutters. “You write speeches for Fearless Fred?” I glance at him. He’s pretending an intense interest in the women down the way. “Enough is enough.”

“Our firm is starting to pull ahead,” Westhause declares. The Commander looks dubious. We’ve all heard it before. High Command started seeing the light at the end of the tunnel the second week of the war. The glimmer hasn’t shone my way yet.

“You guys coming? Or should we pick you up on our way home?” Only Yanevich, who is speaking, and the Commander remain. The rest of our lot have disappeared.

“Yes sir.” Westhause glides into a naked shaft. It seems to plunge toward the planetoids’ heart. He floats upon nothing and grabs a descending cable. He controls his duffel with his other hand. He vanishes with the down-pop of a fast prairie dog. Yanevich follows him.

“Your turn.”

I take one look and say, “Not even without gravity.”

The Commander grins. It’s the nastiest damned grin I’ve ever seen. He sticks me with a straight-arm. “Grab the cable.”

I stop flailing and grab. The cable jerks me down the narrow, polished tube. There isn’t enough light to see much but an oily sheen as the walls speed by. The cable itself has optical fiber wound in. That sheds what little light there is.

This is a claustrophobic setting. The shaft is only slightly more than a meter in diameter.

I can just make out Yanevich below me. If I look up I can see the Commander’s grin coming after me. He has rolled so he’s coming along facedown. He’s laughing at some hilarious joke, and I’m afraid the joke is me. He shouts, “You puke in here and I’ll make you walk home from three lights out. Get ready to change cables. Damn it! Don’t look at me. Watch where you’re going.”

I look down as Yanevich begins heaving himself along. He pumps the cable, falls free, pumps the cable again, gaining speed. He seizes the faster cable and pulls away into the darkness.

I survive the exchange through the intercession of a tapered idiot fitting. It strips my death grip from the slow cable and transfers it to the faster one. The faster cable gives me a big yank and nearly turns me facedown. Now I know why Yanevich speeded himself up.

“Damned dangerous,” I shout up the shaft. The Commander grins.

From below, the First Watch Officer shouts, “Grab your balls. We’ll be hauling ass in a couple minutes.”

I picture myself hurtling down this tube like a too-small ball in an ancient muzzle-loader, rickety-rackety from wall to wall. I feel an intense urge to scream, but I’m not going to satisfy their sadism. I have a suspicion that’s what they’re waiting for. It would make their day.

I suddenly realize that getting tangled in the cable is the real danger here. Envisioning that peril helps silence the howling ape’s instinctive fear of falling.

“Shift coming up.”

I try to imitate Yanevich this time. My effort earns its inevitable reward: I manage to get myself turned sideways. I can’t find the cable again.

“Whoa!” the Commander shouts. “Don’t flail around.” He shoves down on the top of my head, mashing my cap. Yanevich slides up out of the darkness and snags my right ankle. They turn me. “Get a hold. Carefully.”

The real trick is to avoid getting excited. I feel cocky when we hit bottom. I’ve figured it out. I can keep up with die best of them. “There must be a better way.”

The Commander’s grin is bigger than ever. “There is. But it’s no fun. All you do is climb onto a bus and ride down. And I that’s so boring.” He indicated cars unloading passengers along a wall a hundred meters away. People and bags are floating around like drunken pigeons. Some are our men, some the women who shared our lifter.

“You prime son of a bitch.”

“Now, now. You said you wanted to see it all.” He’s still grinning. I want to crack him one and push that grin around sideways. Bet they pull this one on all the new meat. He explains that the cable system is a carryover from TerVeen’s industrial days. Back then the cables carried high-speed freight capsules.

I can’t pop a superior in the snot locker, so I try stomping angrily instead. The result is predictable. There is no gravity. Of course. I flail around for a handhold, which only makes matters worse. In seconds I put on an admirable combination of pitch, roll, and yaw.

“Thought you said he was a veteran,” Yanevich observes laconically. Embarrassed, I get hold of myself.

“See, you haven’t forgotten everything,” the Commander says.

“I’ll get it back. Am I in for the whole new-fish routine?” “Not after we’re aboard. There’s no horseplay aboard a

Climber.” He’s dreadfully serious. Almost comically so.

There’ll be no chance to get even. Grimacing, I let him tug me down so we can begin the next phase of our odyssey.

Westhause continues to explain. “What they did was drill the tunnels parallel to TerVeen’s long axis. They were cutting the third one when the war started. They were supposed to mine outward from the middle when that was finished. The living quarters were tapped in back then, too. For the miners. It was all big news when I was a kid. Eventually they would’ve mined the thing hollow and put some spin on for gravity. They didn’t make it. This tunnel became a wetdock. A Climber returns from patrol, they bring her inside for inspections and repairs. They build the new ones in the other tunnel. Some regular ships too. It has a bigger diameter.”

In Navy parlance a wetdock is any place where a ship can be taken out of vacuum and surrounded by atmosphere so repair people don’t have to work in suits. A wetdock allows faster, more efficient, and more reliable repairwork.

“Uhm.” I’m more interested in looking than listening.

“Takes a month to run a Climber through the inspections and preventive maintenance. These guys do a right job.”

Which is why the crews get so much leave between missions. They aren’t permitted to make their own repairs, even when so inclined.

Westhause divines my thoughts. “We can stretch a leave if we work it right. Command always deploys the whole squadron at once. But we can come in as soon as we’ve used our missiles, if we have the fuel. So we get our month plus however long it takes the last ship to get home.”

Within limits, I’m sure. Command wouldn’t keep eleven ships out of action waiting for a twelfth making a prolonged patrol. “Incentive?”

“It helps.”

The Old Man says, ‘Too much incentive, sometimes.” For a minute it seems he’s finished. Then he decides to go ahead. ‘Take Talmidge’s Climber. Gone now. Tried to fight the hunter-killers so he could use his missiles and be first ship back. No law against it, of course.” He falls silent again. Yanevich picks up the thread when it becomes obvious he’ll say nothing more.

“Good encounter, too. He got three confirmed. But the rest crawled all over him. Kept him up so long half his people came back with baked brains. They set the record for staying up.”

The story sounds exaggerated. I don’t pursue it. They don’t want to talk about it. Even Westhause observes a moment of silence.

We climb aboard an electric bus. It takes its power from a whip running on a track clinging to the tunnel wall.

“Only the finest for the heroes of the Climber Fleet,” the Old Man says, taking the control seat.

The bus surges forward. I try to watch the work going on out in the big tunnel. So many ships! Most of them are not Climbers at all. Half the defense force seems to be in for repairs. A hundred workers on tethers float around every vessel. No lie-in-the-comer refugees up here. Everybody works. And the Pits keep firing away, sending up the supplies.

I think of the Lilliputians binding Gulliver, looking at all those people on lines. And of baby Krohler’s spiders playing at little trial flights around Mom. Said creature is a vaguely arachnidian beast native to New Earth. It nests and nurses its young on its back. It’s warm-blooded, endoskeletal, and mammalian, a pseudo-marsupial, really, but it has a lot of legs and a magnificently extrudable whip of a tail, so the spider image sticks.