Larry Niven - Footfall

“Maneuver done. Acceleration. Stand by. Jason.”

“Locked on and tracking. Take that, Mommy Dearest.”

“Acceleration.”

WHAM

WHAM

“Maneuvering.”

“How do you get a transfer out of this chicken-shit outfit?” Harry demanded.

“Well, you have to fuck up.”

“Fuck up. That’s my problem. All this time I tried to fuck off.”

“Maneuvering. Acceleration. Stand by.”

“Target acquired.”

WHAM

The gauge on his wrist said 40.1. Shit fire, why couldn’t they give me a normal thermometer? “Jeff, what’s 40 degrees?”

“About 105° Fahrenheit.”

“No wonder I’m hot. That’s what my suit shows.”

“Harry.”

“Hmm?”

“That’s not your suit temperature. That’s you. Inside.”

“That thing they rammed up my ass? One-oh-five? Jeff …”

“It’s dangerous but not fatal. What we have to do is cool off.”

“Sure. Where?”

“Acceleration. Stand by.”

WHAM

“Incoming.”

“Missiles dead ahead.”

“Target acquired.”

“Acceleration. Stand by.”

WHAM

“This is Turret Five. We have a target. Permission to fire.”

“Let her fly.”

WHAM

“Maneuvering. Stand by.”

Steam poured out through the leak. Harry braced a pry bar against one bulkhead and wedged the other end against the patch plate. “Hammer.” He felt it in his right hand. He grabbed a handhold with his left, then pounded on the pry bar. “I got that one. Hit it with the welder. I’m going forward.”

The next compartment held a storage area for welding equipment, and cooling air outlets. Harry tested the air pressure. “Goddam, Jeff, cool air!”

“Be right with you.”

Harry gratefully found a corner to wedge himself into. Presently Jeff Franklin joined him. The ship continued to accelerate.

Franklin talked to the control room. “We need some time. We’re getting goofy with the heat.”

“Take ten minutes.”

“It’ll have to do.”

Had Franklin been acting goofy? Harry hadn’t noticed. But the cool felt wonderful, as if his skin were drinking a good brand of beer. The air jetted through his suit, and he waved his arms and legs to let it through.

There were no digit ships now. Atlantis’s screen showed only the prime target — unmistakably the Mother Ship now, short and wide, as in the last transmissions from Kosmograd, and riding a spear of violet-white light. The drive flame was swinging around.

“Trying to lose us,” Jay Hadley gloated.

The Shuttle’s thrust dropped suddenly. Roy started violently. “Relax,” Jay said. ChunkChunk: the empty main tank was free. Attitude jets popped, and Atlantis eased back until the Mother Ship was behind the main tank.

“They can’t get loose now. They can’t turn fast enough. We’re on intercept and in missile range. Let’s see what happens. Are you going to open the bay?”

“Not just yet. We’re too fragile with the bay open. You know damn well what they’ll do when we’re in range.”

“They’re doing it now. I saw missiles before I turned us.”

“Yeah?” Intercept. Roy couldn’t make himself feel surprised. He’s going to ram. He didn’t even ask me.

The Shuttle main tank was a green-edged black shadow, growing brighter. Big Mama had its own defenses. The main tank must be boiling. And suddenly the main tank’s black shadow vanished in half a dozen simultaneous flares. Missiles were homing on the explosions of other missiles. The Shuttle turned, and Roy felt the solid thumps of fragments impacting the tile shielding. There would be no reentry for Atlantis.

Jay reached down to move lever arms that protruded through the floor. These were new: they connected to petcocks in the lower level. Water that had been ice at takeoff was jetting from vents in the Shuttle’s nose. The cloud of debris ahead thickened with water vapor.

It might hide Atlantis… but there was no hiding Big Mama. Her drive flame must be visible across half the world. Jay was firing the EMU motors, the smaller jets that connected to the Shuttle’s onboard tank.

“Still on intercept?”

“Yeah.”

“Opening the bay. Let’s get closer before we loose the birds. If you did everything right—”

“They’ll think we’re dead.” Jay laughed.

The gauge showed Harry’s internal temperature at 39 degrees. I’ve gained some. Not enough.

“Incoming. Hang on.” Oh, shit. Michael shuddered.

“We took something, portside forward,” Gillespie said.

“Losing steam pressure.”

“She’s getting sluggish. Doesn’t want to maneuver.”

“Something’s wrong portside forward.”

“Harry!”

“Yeah, Max, I’m on the way. “Jeff, let’s do it.” Progress was slow. As they moved forward, the ship was hotter, and there was more damage. Handholds were missing. New holes punched through.

Some punch. Michael’s armor was in layers: steel armor, fiberglass matting, more steel armor, layer after layer of hard and nonresilient soft. Anything coming through that had been moving fast — and hadn’t melted.

Harry felt a tug. He looked behind. His air lines were stretched taut. “End of the line.”

“Max, we can’t get further,” Jeff Franklin reported.

“You have to. We’re losing pressure just forward of you.”

“Losing pressure.”

“Yeah, the most powerful spacecraft ever built by man is going to fail for lack of steam.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “I’ll go have a look.” He disconnected the line, and now he was on canned air.

Big Mama was close, close. The drive flame, the dark cylinder at its tip — the sudden green flare, the firefly lights of missiles pouring from four points along her flank. “Firing,” said Roy.

“I’ll wait.”

“Good. Missiles one through five away. Getting target acquisition for the next group. We’ve actually got a few minutes don’t we?”

“Say two minutes before the missiles get here …”

“Missiles six through ten, away.” The green light had dimmed. Big Mama’s lasers had found more interesting targets: Atlantis’s own missiles.

“-But we’re heating up. Oh, fuck it. We won’t be taking it long. How you doing?”

“Target acquired, missiles eleven through fifteen away; that’s all of them. Turn us! Now!”

Motors popped on. Atlantis turned, belly toward Big Mama. Roy opened the petcocks again. A cloud of water vapor might slow a missile or confuse its poor brain. Something slammed them against their seats. Again. “Reentry is going to be a problem,” Jay said, and laughed. “It isn’t atmosphere you’re—”

The Shuttle twisted: an explosion against one wing. Jay brought them back with attitude jets.

“-thinking of entering. I wish I had a view.”

Nothing showed beyond the window save stars and a hail of green. The reentry shield was boiling under Big Mama’s lasers. “Are we still on target? I’d hate to miss after all this.”

“Big Mama’s a big target,” Jay said. There didn’t seem to be a hell of a lot more to say.

The portside bow was chaos. Steam poured from broken pipe and streamed through the ripped hull.

“Shut the damn steam off!” Harry shouted.

“Maneuvering. Stand by. Harry, if we cut the steam on port side, I won’t be able to maneuver.”

“Incoming. Stand by.”

Michael shuddered again.

Max Rohrs was holding his calm, but it sounded like he was fighting to do it. “Steam pressure falling. We’ll try to shunt to secondary water sources.”

What good will that do if we can’t get the leak shut off. Harry studied the situation. The compartment ahead was filled with steam and wreckage. He could feel its heat radiating through his faceplate. If I move real fast, I can just — “Jeff, I’m going forward and close that valve. Nine-alfa for the record.”