Glen Cook - Passage At Arms

"Be less efficient, sir, but I'll bring the cases over one at a time. You'll be sure to get something if you have to haul ass."

"Right." I relay his plan to the Commander, who merely nods. He's preoccupied with the corvette.

He's worried. She isn't behaving right.

After a time, he comes to peer over my shoulder. "What's she doing?" I ask.

"Sneaking. Probably figures we're a Climber. Must guess we've seen her. She should be crawling all over us."

"Berberian thought she was headed here when she spotted us. Maybe she's hurt."

"Why didn't she yell for help and stay put?"

She hasn't yelled. Neither Fisherman nor Throdahl have detected a signal. "Maybe she's hurt bad."

"Maybe. I don't trust them." He stalks toward Westhause.

He has his second wind. His shoulders no longer slump. His face is less sallow, more determined.

He has the antsyness of a man eager to act. Were we in better shape he'd jump the corvette just to see what happened.

Next time past he says, "Eighty thousand klicks is close enough for energy weapons." He rolls away again, reminds Mr. Westhause to keep the asteroid between us and the sneak.

Chief Nicastro appears with a second case of rations. Glancing at the compartment clock, I'm surprised to see how long he's taken. Time is zipping.

The First Watch Officer comes through the Weapons hatch. He has a metal case in his arms, a sheet of paper in one hand. The Commander peers into the case. "Pass them around." He snatches the tattered sheet.

Yanevich hands me a ration packet. I laugh softly.

"Something wrong with it?" the Old Man asks.

"Emergency rations! This's better stuff than we've been eating for three months." I pull the heat tab. A minute later, I peel the foil and—lo!—a steaming meal.

It's no gourmet delight. Something like potato hash including gristly gray chopped meat, a couple of unidentifiable vegetables, and a dessert that might be chocolate cake in disguise. The frosting on the cake has melted into the hash. I polish the tray, belch. "Damn, that was good!"

Yanevich gives each man a meal, then hands me another pack. They come forty-two to a case. He sets the last aside for the Chief. To my questioning frown, he says, "That's for your buddy." __

Out of nowhere, out of the secret jungles of metal, comes Fearless Fred, rubbing my shins and purring. I heat his pack, thieve the cake, place the tray on the deckplates. Fred polishes his tray in less time than I did mine.

The Commander hasn't quit staring at the sheet Yanevich brought. Now he passes it to me, heats his own ration pack.

Just a list of figures. Water, so much. Cracked hydrogen, so much. CT, fourteen minutes available Climb time...

I'll be damned. That Varese is a classic. He swore we had no CT. And there's twice the hydrogen he admitted was available. I look up. Through a mouthful, Yanevich says, "I twisted Diekereide, not Varese. Varese wouldn't have admitted it."

I raise an eyebrow. "Gets a little carried away, doesn't he?"

"I feel better now," the Old Man says. He tosses his tray into the empty ration case. Yanevich makes the rounds, cleaning up. We're all doing our share of odd jobs. We have to take up the slack left by the departures of Picraux and Brown.

I can't imagine how Varese is managing.

I seldom visit Engineering. Afraid Varese and I will get into it. We barely tolerate each other in the wardroom. 'I don't understand it. We've no real cause.

Yanevich shakes me awake. He wears a pale grin. "Sleeping on station, eh?"

Of course. We all have for weeks. "I don't think I could find my hammock anymore. Foreign territory. What's up?"

"Corvette changed course. CPA fifty-five thousand klicks. Commander figures it means trouble."

"Jesus. What'd we ever do to those guys?"

He grins. "They probably said the same thing at Rathgeber."

"Yeah."

"You'd better figure this scow is number one on their shit list. The Executioner is back..." He pauses. Then, "Sometimes I think he's a renegade."

"What?"

"His style. He gets involved."

"Uhm. How's the Chief doing?"

"One more trip."

I punch a few keys, pan camera across Canaan's end of the sky. The big show is still smoking.

"How?"

"The Old Man will think of something."

Come on, Steve. Not you too. You're a big boy. You'll be the Old Man yourself your next time around.

The Commander joins us. He looks washed out again. "Real skyshow, eh? Berberian says the 'vette acts shot-up. Canzoneri agrees. Hyper generators and comm out. No missiles. Else they'd be climbing our backs. This's a popular station."

"Think they'll leave us alone?"

"We look too easy to take."

"She'll be in best fire configuration in five minutes, Commander," Berberian announces.

"Very well." The Old Man visits Westhause, then Canzoneri. "Battle stations." We're on station already. He tells me, "Get the Chief back inside."

Yanevich watches over Throdahl's shoulder. The radioman has started logging the traffic he copies.

The First Watch Officer selects some notes and brings them to me. Reading them is like painting by the numbers. A picture slowly appears.

The squadrons which attacked the convoy back when were very successful. So were two more which made a follow-up strike after the first three broke off. One note is especially interesting.

"Commander, the Eight Ball did it again."

"How so?" He seems only mildly intrigued.

"Brought he-^e another six stars. Two red and four white." Meaning she took out two warships and four logistic hulls.

"Uhm. Henderson is a good man."

Down toward the Inner Worlds they're trying something unique. Second Fleet is raiding Thompson's System. The heavies are laying back, guarding a flotilla of mothers, tankers, and tenders from which the Climbers are jumping off. They're even rearming in space. Interesting.

Wonder if we'll have any Climbers left when the dust settles.

Nicastro is on. "Get your butt in here, Chief. Looks like trouble." I watch him float over, steering the last carton of rations.

Damn, but I feel better. Amazing how a few cases can boost a man's morale.

"Coming up to optimum, Commander," Berberian says.

"Very well. Stand by, Mr. Westhause. Is the Chief in yet?"

"He's at the lock, Commander."

"Mr. Varese, get Nicastro inside."

"Oh, damn!" Berberian snarls. "Commander, they faked us. Missiles launching. Flight of four."

"Velocity to compute. Time till arrival, Canzoneri."

"Aye, sir."

"Feed to astrogation."

Westhause surveys the compartment. His gaze meets mine. He smiles, returns to work.

I watch the four red darts streak through the tank. At one hundred gees they won't be long arriving.

"Chief's inside," Varese announces.

"Ready, Mr. Westhause?"

"Ready, Commander."

"Engineering, shift to annihilation."

"Engineering, aye."

We're going to Climb?... That's right. They 'fessed up to having some CT. But how much good can it do?

Canzoneri does the counting down. "Missiles arrive in thirty seconds." Where did the time go?

"Can we do it, Mr. Westhause?"

"I have enough data, sir. If she doesn't go hyper."

"I don't think she was lying about that. There're enough drive anomalies to indicate bad generators."

"Ten seconds," the Chief computerman says. "Five..."

Alarms hoot. I hear his three and two, then we're going up.

Six minutes later we're down again, so close the corvette fills my screen as the gun cameras lock.

Lightning bolts span the gap separating us. At this range it won't matter if her screens are up.

The Old Man laughs. "We lied to you, too, hunter-man. We had CT left."

Red sores appear ofi the corvette's flank. One, near her fly-eye bows, bulges outward, erupts. A