Glen Cook - Passage At Arms

shower of junk sprays through the gap.

Alarm. Ghost world again. The Commander is beside me. "Down to Weapons, boy. We got nothing but your toy now. Ito has to cool his beamers. Go for her drives. Come on! Up now. Go along."

I hear him arguing with Westhause as I push through the Weapons hatch. Sounds like Westhause wants to run while we have Climb time left.

I fling myself into the seat at the cannon board. Piniaz has it warmed already. The target data is flowing. I break the arming locks, scan the compartment. Only Piniaz seems unperturbed. I flip to manual. I'll do this myself.

Alarm.

Damn! I'm not ready!

There she is. The stars beyond her say we're down opposite the flank we hit before. Targeting rings amidships. Fire and try to drag my point of aim aft. Holes on the moth's wings. "Too high!"

I shout. "Got to get under the wing."

A beam licks out from the corvette. It passes between can and torus. The ship rocks. A stay member glows and parts. I send a burst into the beam mount. "Down, damn it!" We're moving, but too slowly.

This is mad. We're two pit bulls with broken backs trying to sink our teeth in one another's throats.

More sewing machine holes along the side of the corvette. Gas escaping through some. Wing apparently rising. We're actually dropping. Fierce glow round the corvette's drive vents as she puts on power.

Stitching moving aft fast. Targeting rings traversing the heat vents, swinging back. Christ! I could reach out and touch her, we're so close.

Red lights across my board. "Ammunition gone!" I shout. "Get out of here."

Hyper alarm. Another beam from the corvette. Wham! Launch Three ripped off the torus in a hail of echoing fragments. Launch Three, that caused so much trouble after Rath-geber. Hope the accelerator path wasn't breached. We wouldn't be able to Climb.

Ghosting.

It lasts only a few minutes. Down we go. Cameras searching, hunting the corvette. What's she doing? Coming after us? There she is. Two thousand some klicks. Accelerating... nova!

Damn! Must've gotten a few marbles into her fusor room. A weak, ragged victory growl runs through Ops.

I pile out of my chair, only now realizing that I didn't strap in. No one closed the Ops hatch either. I scramble through, slam it.

Yanevich is waiting, grinning. "Damned fine sniping for a one-legged intellectual."

I grin myself. "Yeah. Hey. Another red star for the Old Man."

The Commander is hanging over Westhause's shoulder again, looking gloomy. Berberian and Cannon are talking at once. Fisherman shouts something. "Enjoy," Yanevich says. "The party's just beginning."

There's a stir in the display tank. They know a Climber has struck. They don't know we're harmless now. Their reaction seems to be a controlled panic.

Carmon goes to his broadest scale. Red and green blips swirl everywhere.

The Old Man is grumbling at Throdahl. Must be arguing with Command. There's no way we can .make a rendezvous at Fuel Point. TerVeen is our only hope.

"Stand by to take hyper," the Old Man says.

We have to jump. Have to get as close as we can. Maybe there's a shred of Planetary Defense umbrella left. Long shot.

We could do a few zigzags and power down completely, go on emergency power, and drift in, but the men aren't up to a norm crossing. The best we could hope for, Canzoneri says, is a nine-day passage. Through the heat and heart of battle.

No thank you. That's a suicide run.

Do we have enough hydrogen to jump and make adjustments in inherent velocity when we get close?...

Why worry? Command may not send tugs into the crucible for a lone, beat-up Climber they don't want there anyway.

The Commander appears only mildly concerned. He's started another up cycle. Telling weak jokes.

Asking Throdahl and Rose for the addresses of those girls they're always bragging about. "Jump, Mr. Westhause. Maximum translation ratio."

Oh-oh. We have company. Nuclear greetings are headed our way.

Our chances look longer all the time. I don't think we'll make it.

It's been one hell of an interesting mission----- The Commander is beside me. "Go get your notes."

"Sir?"

"Get your stuff together. Stow it in a ration case under your seat."

I move down to Ship's Services, strip my hammock in seconds. "What's going on out there?" Bradley asks. He doesn't know we've just shot it out with a corvette, and that a missile flight is closing in.

Kriegshauser is right behind him. "Give it to us straight," he pleads.

I sketch it. "It doesn't look good. But you can count on the Old Man."

That seems assurance enough. The Ship's Services people are unshakable. Maybe they were selected for that.

I pause as I pass through Weapons. Piniaz looks grim. He forces a smile. One hand drifts to my shoulder. "Been all right, Lieutenant. Good luck. Just write it the way it was."

A hell of a gesture for the little man. "I will, Ito. I promise."

I settle my things under the First Watch Officer's seat. Pity I can't make peace with Varese, too.

"What's happened?" I ask Fisherman. The mausoleum silence of Ops demands a soft voice.

"Getting worse." His screen is a-crawl with hyper wakes. The pencil strokes characteristic of hightranslation ratio missiles spaghetti through the mess. We're cruising the middle of a barn-burner.

Both sides have gone kill-crazy.

Chung!

Chung!

"What the hell is that?"

Chung!

Sounds like some mischievious child-deity is hammering the hull with a god-sized gong-beater.

"We're hyper skipping," Fisherman says. "Randomed."

I figured as much. It's one way to rattle a missile's moron brain. But that doesn't have anything to do with the noise.

Chung!

"What's the noise?" It's pounding the can about ninety degrees round the circle.

"Mr. Westhause said he was having trouble with inertial rectification."

"That wouldn't..."

"Commander, Engineering. There's a chunk of water-ice bouncing around in the Six Reserve Tank. Can we have a constant vector and acceleration while we melt and drain?"

"Negative. We can live with the racket. But go ahead and melt."

"Engineering, aye."

That was Diekereide. I haven't seen him for a while. Have to buy him a beer if we get out of this.

"Weapons. Gunnery status?"

"Energy all go, Commander. Got them cooled and tuned enough for a couple shots." We nearly lost them while dueling with the corvette. "They won't last, though."

"We won't shoot unless a Christmas present falls in our lap."

The Old Man has reached back and found one more reservoir of whatever it is that makes him go. He jitters from station to station, restless as a whore in church, almost eager for the squeeze to get tighter. Poisonous clouds belch from his pipe. We take turns coughing and scowling and rubbing our eyes. And grinning at the Commander's back when he moves on. ......_

He's alive. He'll bring us through again.

That faith, the thing that the Commander so fears, resents, and loves, helps me understand both him and Fisherman a bit better.

Fisherman has surrendered his life and soul to a universal Ship's Commander. He just keeps plugging while he waits for that heavenbound ride.

The others yield only to faith in snatches, in hard time, to a man, when they fear their own competence is insufficient.

It's a pity the Commander can find no fit object for faith himself.

He's too cynical to accept any religion, and the Admiral's circus antics have alienated him from any demigod role. What's left? The Service? That's what we were taught all those years in Academy.

Tannian is Command's strength and weakness. For all his strategic genius, he can't inspire his captains.

The gong-beating fades, but not before the plug-ups rush to a tiny crack in our bulkhead.