Larry Niven - Footfall

The static increased.

“Link with Nosebleed has been lost.”

“Should we try for a new link?” Jenny asked.

“How long until we have direct contact?”

“About two hours, Relay through the East Coast in half hour.”

“Any orders for them, Mr. President?” Admiral Carrell asked.

“You’re in charge, Admiral.”

“We’ll wait. Hide the subs,” Admiral Carrell said.

“All fishes, this is Gimlet. Run away!”

“Bogeys ahead are at extreme missile range.”

“All right, children, quiet hour is over!”

Harry jumped awake. He had slept! Harry found that amazing. He’d thought sleeping would be as difficult as pissing, which had required two men and fifteen minutes each to open the pressure suits and close them again. He’d slept, and he felt wonderful! Now, what?.

His forward view screens showed sixteen digit ships in a spreading ring. Their light swamped the stars, hellglare green. In their center was a violet-white glare.

It’ll be like a single pass through a Cuisinart. But we’re gaining on Big Mama!

“Acceleration. Stand by.”

WHAM

WHAM

WHAM

Three kicks in the arse. One of the green suns faded, then became a fireball. “How did we do that?” he asked aloud.

“Gamma rays could have set off fusion in the deuterium,” Tiny Pelz said. “That’s a guess. We still don’t know just how their drive works.”

“One thing sure,” Jeff Franklin said. “Hot gamma rays can’t be doing their ships any good.”

“Crews either, if they’re anything like us.”

“Bandit at one o’clock high is changing color.”

“Roger. Take him, Jason. Acceleration. Stand by.”

WHAM

“Good shooting!”

Jason Daniels opened his faceplate. “Did you get through to Colorado Springs?”

“I did my best. No new orders. They may be missing all the excitement.”

“More excitement coming up,” Jason said. He scratched his nose, then closed the faceplate. “Missiles dead ahead.” They showed as a swarm of fireflies. Bullets would be as dangerous, and they’d be invisible. Harry winced. At these velocities, marshmallows would be dangerous. They would strike like meteors.

“Rotation. Stand by.”

Steam jets hissed. Michael turned ponderously.

“Don’t turn a cold shoulder; show your armored ass,” Franklin said.

“And if we don’t turn fast enough?” Harry asked.

“Keep the frivolous chatter to a dull roar,” Gillespie said.

Aw, shit! Harry turned his intercom switch to local. So did Jeff Franklin. Kid looks embarrassed. Harry did an exaggerated shrug so that Franklin would see it.

TV cameras looked up along the flanks of the Brick, toward digit ships spreading across the sky. The Brick’s massive nose would reflect some of that green glare, absorb some too. Some got through. The forward shield couldn’t hide them from all sixteen enemies, but turned arse on to the enemy they couldn’t accelerate.

Michael’s amidships guns were firing forward, assisting in rotating the ship. My guns. I put them in. Clouds of shotgun pellets made of spent uranium were arraying themselves ahead of Michael. Harry saw bright flashes among the missiles.

Steam roared again. Michael’s rotation ceased. Cameras on long booms looked out beyond the butt plate, and the ring of digit ships.

The first of the missiles struck. Whatever they carried for a warhead, it was puny compared to Michael’s own drive.

“Ten minutes. Then we turn again and accelerate like hell,” Gillespie said. “Amuse yourselves.”

Yeah. Sure.

“Stovepipes Seven and Eight. Shuttle Two. Your turn. Stand by.” The gunships cast loose, accelerating to the side. Shuttle Two followed. Harry watched the flames dwindle, then veer, around more oncoming missiles and toward the digit ships.

“It’s their last chance at us,” Tiny Pelz said. “They’ll pour it on.” “Rotation. Stand by.” Steam jets hissed. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

Franklin had forgotten the intercom was on. Don’t blame him much. This was the trickiest part: as they passed through the ring of digit ships, they would rotate to face away from the thickest cluster, protecting themselves with the butt plate, but exposing Michael’s comparatively weak sides to others.

The ship turned ponderously. Spin, you bastard!

Missiles exploded. Light washed two screens. The ship kicked mildly, Wham Wham Wham pause Wham: snout missiles exploded under the butt plate.

“-now and in the hour of our death, amen. Temperature rising starboard amidships.”

“Gun turret four no longer reporting.”

“Bandit, nine o’clock.”

“Steam forming, bow section three.”

More missiles. Michael trembled to the shock waves.

“You can do it, baby, you can do it—”

A vastly larger shock wave kicked Michael sideways. Somebody screamed. Half a dozen screens blinked white and went blank. Tiny Pelz said, “Oboy.”

“Damage control, report!”

“Stand by,” Max Rohrs said. “Tiny, what the hell was that?”

“We got two! Two, digit ships blanked out!” Harry shouted.

“Fascinating. I didn’t shoot,” Jason Daniels said. “Who got them?”

“We’re tumbling,” Gillespie said. “I’ve got no attitude control. Damage control, do something!”

“I know what happened,” Pelz said. “I just can’t see it. Somebody deploy a camera.”

“Gamble, go. Tiny, talk.”

Hamilton Gamble left his seat on the jump. Tiny Pelz said, “I think we’ve lost one of the spurt bomb bays. The snouts set off a nuclear missile close enough to pump some spurt bombs. Maybe the whole bay fired! One tremendous blast of gamma lasers. It’s not as bad as it sounds — I hope.”

We’ve had it! The implications hit him. We’re all there was. Aw, shit.

“Kasanovsky, get moving. I want to know what’s happened to our steam jets.”

Another suited figure left the bridge.

My turn soon. Harry played with his own TV screens, switching to internal cameras. Nothing here. Go around the ship. Assume we lost the ventral spurt bomb bay. Move from there. Ha!

Something had kicked an enormous dent in Michael’s port side. Forward of that, the port pipe room was swirling gray chaos.

“Ham Gamble here. I see it. Look for yourself, channel Alfa six.”

Harry switched his TV monitor. There.

The screen lit to show the sky. Digit ships were blurred green spotlights; the stars didn’t show at all. The camera swung down. Spurt Bomb Bay 1 was gone. Only its melted-looking base still stood up from the Shell. The much larger tower that was Thrust Bomb Bay 1 had a chewed look. As Gamble swiveled the camera, their view ran along the flank of the Brick. Meteor holes pocked it. The base was ripped. A stream of fog jetted away.

Max Rohrs spoke quietly, a litany of disasters. “Port water tank gone. I’ve got the port fission pile scrammed. We’ve got no water for it anyway. The whole portside attitude jet system is dead.”

“Slow response to starboard control system,” Gillespie said.

“Nothing from the Stovepipes or the Shuttle. I think they’ve had it.”

“Overheat, starboard amidships.”

“We’re still taking hits,” Gillespie said. “Max, if you can get a wiggle on—”

“Situation assessment coming up,” Rohrs said. His calmness was a rebuke.

“Okay, I have the picture,” Pelz said. “It could have been worse. Most of the energy must have gone forward. Better figure we killed all of the ships we deployed, and the two snout ships that aren’t firing lasers anymore. We got some spillover energy to the side.”

“Anything coming apart? If we shake and rattle, do we break anything?”

“Not by me,” Rohrs said.