Larry Niven - Footfall

“Stand by. I’ll try to stabilize. Jason, get ready! Kill something! Acceleration and rotation, stand by!”

“Wait one. Bombs away — she’s yours.”

WHAM

WHAM

WHAM

quiet

“It sure sounds good in theory,” Tiny Pelz said.

“What does?” Franklin demanded.

“Firing bombs off center to compensate for rotation. Sure sounds good in theory.”

The screens showed they were still rotating, but more slowly. Michael was the center of a ring of dazzling green lights… receding aft.

“We’re through, or close enough,” Jason said. “Their missiles can’t hit us, we can’t hit them, but this is the closest approach to those damn lasers. The steam we’re losing — the cooling effect may be all that’s saving us.”

“If we don’t get attitude control, we’ve got a big bloody pinwheel! Acceleration. Stand by. Jason.”

“Bombs away. Locked on. She’s yours.”

WHAM

“Try again. Jason…”

“Roger.”

WHAM

“Shuttles Three and Four. We may not make it. We have to hit this mother with something. You’re on. Stand by.”

“Roger.”

“Max, get me some attitude jets!” Harry already had his faceplate closed.

Max Rohrs used a light pen to trace lines on the screen. “There’s plenty of pressure in the starboard system, and we have working attitude jets starboard, ventral, and here and here dorsal.” The pen flicked across a stylized view of Michael. “The port jets look okay in TV pix, but they won’t hold pressure. The electronics aren’t much good either.” No wonder! Half the portside pipes are gone!

“What we’ve got to do is isolate the working chunk of the portside system, then shunt steam in there from the starboard generators. We don’t have electronic control of those valves — or if we do, we don’t have any feedback on what they’ve done, which is just as bad. What we have to do is start at the breaks and move toward the jets, patching as we go.”

Harry laughed. His screen showed a three-foot pipe with a six foot section missing. Beyond it was a hole in the hull, a neat oval with a rim that bulged outward. Stars showed through.

Rohrs pointed at Harry’s display. “The merely difficult we do immediately. The impossible we leave for dry dock. You’re supposed to use judgment, but get the damn lines fixed! Patch anything you can patch, and use the manual valves to shut off everything else.

“Lambe, Donaldson, go through the starboard system and check it out. Get things set up to shunt steam across to the port system, and stand by. We’ll need pressure to test.

“Reddington, Franklin,”

Here it comes.

“Start with the big hole in the port system and work your way up to the jets. Your goal is to make the port jets work with starboard steam. Got that, Harry?”

“Righto.” All this so I could wear a pressure suit? “Move.”

ChunkChunk. Roy Culzer, in Shuttle Four, named Atlantis in a more peaceful era, felt the prongs unlock at the nose. The main tank was moored to Michael by the same matings that in gentler times would have gripped solid fuel boosters. Now only the aft matings were still attached, and Atlantis’s nose pointed beyond the overhang of Michael’s roof.

Jay Hadley had the motors going. Blue flame played down the flank of the Brick. The aft prongs released, and Atlantis was free.

The sky was a hot green.

“Turning. Stand by.” The Shuttle turned as it pulled away. Earth and Michael were behind, the violet-white flame of the prime target ahead. Four, five green spotlights sank below window view. “Okay,” Jay Hadley said, “now they’re only heating the main tank. We’ll burn that fuel before the tank blows up.”

For nearly eight hours Michael had been in direct sunlight. The pressure in the main tanks was already too high, and rising. Have to live with it.

Shuttle Three, Challenger, was already lost to sight. Roy caught sight of a gunship’s yellower flame just before it disappeared into a missile explosion.

“Maneuvering. Stand by.”

Roy’s sense of balance protested as Jay turned the Shuttle. “What have we got?”

“Missiles. We’ve got five miles per second on those snout ships. The missiles only get one pass. They can’t hit us if we keep veering.”

“You hope.”

“Semper fi, mac. Let me know when you think you have a shot at something.”

“Yeah, sure.” The missiles were in the main compartment, and the big bay doors weren’t open.

The ring of green lights dropped away aft. “Go, baby, go,” Roy prayed. Talking to the ship. Why not? What else can I do? “Maybe we should open the bay.”

“No point.” The dreadful green lights were fading. “Our missiles can’t reach them either. Save ’em for Mommy Dearest. How long before we’re in range?”

“Maybe an hour, if we don’t get hurt, and they don’t get more acceleration.” Roy poked numbers into Atlantis’s computer. “Looks to me like they’re pouring on all they have.”

“So are we. Roy—”

“Yeah?”

“General Gillespie said Michael might not make it.”

“Yeah. I heard.”

“That leaves it up to us.”

“Well, there’s Challenger.”

“Heard from Big Jim lately?”

“No.” Big Jim Farr. Six four, only he managed to lose two inches in the official records. Laurie Culzer and Jane Farr and five kids were sharing a house in Port Angeles. “Think he’s had it, Joe?”

“I think we act like he’s out.”

“Which leaves us.”

“Which leaves us. Maneuvering. Stand by.”

The whole portside structure was hot.

“X-rays,” Tiny Pelz said. “What they don’t go through, they heat up. Efficient at it.”

Harry trailed air lines behind. The tanks in his backpack held an hour of air, but without cooling he wouldn’t live an hour. It was already uncomfortable. His trailing air lines were picking up heat.

Sweat pooled. When he jumped it ran down his face, his arms, his legs; when he was still it couldn’t run.

“I’ve closed seventeen-tango,” Harry reported. “Moving forward. I don’t see any breaks in this section.”

“Stand by. I’ll send over steam for a test.”

“Roger.” Harry put his helmet next to Jeff Franklin’s and turned off the intercom. “All we need. More heat.”

“Sure hope it holds — naw. Look.”

A thin plume poured out ahead: live steam, absolutely clear up to two feet from the break. “Kill the shunt,” Harry said. “We’re losing pressure—”

“Belay that,” Gillespie said. “Reddington, you’re a wonder. I’m getting some control.”

“You’re also losing steam.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Sure, if you take the pressure off!”

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Harry,” Rohrs said.

“Yeah, I knew he didn’t mean it.”

“Harry, scout ahead. What’s it like on forward?”

“Hot!”

“Sure be useful to know—”

“Max, has anybody ever suggested you change deodorants? I’m moving forward.”

It wasn’t easy getting past the plume of leaking steam. Harry took it fast, then waited for Jeff.

The ship surged, then surged again. Gillespie sounded excited, “Goddam! We’re turning. Head for Big Mama. Coming around. Almost there… Jason?”

“Ready!”

“Acceleration. Stand by.” Harry grabbed for a ladder.

WHAM

WHAM

Harry slapped on a patch and braced against the bulkhead while Jeff Franklin ran the torch. Metal glowed where Franklin worked. He was almost done.

“Maneuvering. Stand by.”

“Shit, give us a minute!” Harry shouted.

“Stand by.”

Steam leaked from the side that Franklin hadn’t finished. Michael turned. Harry’s head swam.