Keith Laumer: Thunderhead

“Seemed like for this trek I ought to be in uniform,” Carnaby said. “And the cold-suit will feel good, up on the high slopes.”

The two moved off down the dark street. The lights were still on in Sal Maverik’s general store. The door opened as they came up; Sal emerged, carrying a flour sack, his mackinaw collar turned up around his ears. He swung to stare at Carnaby.

“Hey, by God! Look at him, dressed fit to kill!”

Carnaby and Terry brushed past the thick-set man.

“Carnaby,” Sal raised his voice, “was this poor kid the best you could get to hold your hand?”

“What do you mean, poor kid?” Terry started. Carnaby caught his arm.

“We’re on official business, Terry,” he said. “Eyes front.”

“Playing Navy, hah? That’s a hot one,” the storekeeper called after the two. “What kind of orders you get? To take a goony-bird census, up in the foothills?”

“Don’t pay any attention, Lieutenant,” Terry said, his voice unsteady. “He’s as full of meanness as a rotten meal-spud is weevils.”

“He’s had some big disappointments in his life, Terry. That makes a man bitter.”

“I guess you did, too, Lieutenant. It ain’t made you mean.” Terry looked sideways at Carnaby. “I don’t reckon you beat out the competition to get an Academy appointment and then went through eight years of training just for this.” He made a gesture that took in the sweep of the semi-arid landscape stretching away to the big world’s far horizon, broken only by the massive outcroppings of the pale, convoluted lava cores spaced at intervals of a few miles along a straight fault line that extended as far as men had explored the desolate world.

Carnaby laughed softly. “No, I had big ideas about seeing the Galaxy, making Fleet Admiral, and coming home covered with gold braid and glory.”

“You leave any folks behind, Lieutenant?” Terry inquired, waxing familiar in the comradeship of the trail.

“No wife. There was a girl. And my half brother, Tom. A nice kid. He’d be over forty, now.”

The dusky sun was up now, staining the rounded, lumpy flank of Thunderhead a deep scarlet. Carnaby and Sickle crossed the first rock slope, entered the broken ground where the prolific rock lizards eyed them as they approached, then heaved themselves from their perches, scuttled away into the black shadows of the deep crevices opened in the porous rock by the action of ten million years of wind and sand erosion on thermal cracks.

Five hundred feet above the plain, Carnaby looked back at the settlement; only a mile away, it was almost lost against the titanic spread of empty wilderness.

“Terry, why don’t you go on back now,” he said. “Your uncle will have a nice breakfast waiting for you.”

“I’m looking forward to sleeping out,” the boy said confidently. “We better keep pushing, or we won’t make the Roost by dark.”

In the Officer’s off-duty bay, Signal Lieutenant Pryor straightened from over the billiard table as the nasal voice of the command deck yeoman broke into the recorded dance music:

“Now hear this. Commodore Broadly will address the ship’s company.”

“Ten to one he says we’ve lost the bandit,” Supply Captain Aaron eyed the annunciator panel.

“Gentlemen,” the sonorous tones of the ship’s commander sounded relaxed, unhurried. “We now have a clear track on the Djann blockade runner, which indicates he will attempt to evade our Inner Line defenses and lose himself in Rim territory. In this, I propose to disappoint him. I have directed Colonel Lancer to launch interceptors to take up station along a conic, subsuming thirty degrees on axis from the presently constructed vector. We may expect contact in approximately three hours’ time.” A recorded bos’n’s whistle shrilled the end-of-message signal.

“So?” Aaron raised his eyebrows. “A three-million-tonner swats a ten-thousand-ton side-boat. Big deal.”

“That boat can punch just as big a hole in the blockade as a Super-D,” Pryor said. “Not that the Djann have any of those left to play with.”

“We kicked the damned spiders back into their home system ten years ago,” Aaron said tiredly. “In my opinion, the whole Containment operation’s a boondoggle to justify a ten-million-man Fleet.”

“As long as there are any of them alive, they’re a threat,” Pryor repeated the slogan.

“Well, Broadly sounds as though he’s got the bogie in the bag,” Aaron yawned.

“Maybe he has,” Pryor addressed the ball carefully, sent the ivory sphere cannoning against the target. “He wouldn’t go on record with it if he didn’t think he was on to a sure thing.”

“He’s a disappointed ’ceptor jockey. What makes him think that pirate won’t duck back of a blind spot and go dead?”

“It’s worth a try—and if he nails it, it will be a feather in his cap.”

“Another star on his collar, you mean.”

“Uh-huh, that too.”

“We’re wasting our time,” Aaron said. “But that’s his lookout. Six ball in the corner pocket.”

As Commodore Broadly turned away from the screen on which he had delivered his position report to the crew of the great war vessel, his eye met that of his executive officer. The latter shifted his gaze uneasily.

“Well, Roy, you expect me to announce to all hands that Cincfleet has committed a major blunder in letting this bandit slip through the picket line?” he demanded with some asperity.

“Certainly not, sir.” The officer looked worried. “But in view of the seriousness of the breakout…”

“There are some things better kept in the highest command channels,” the commodore said shortly. “You and I are aware of the grave consequences of a new release of their damned seed in an uncontaminated sector of the Eastern Arm. But I see no need to arouse the parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins of every apprentice technician aboard by an overly candid disclosure of the facts!”

“I thought Containment had done its job by now,” the captain said. “It’s been three years since the last Djann sighting outside the Reservation. It seems we’re not the only ones who’re keeping things under our hats.”

Broadly frowned. “Mmmm. I agree, I’m placed at something of a disadvantage in my tactical planning by the over-secretiveness of the General Staff. However, there can be no two opinions as to the correctness of my present course.”

The exec glanced ceilingward. “I hope so, sir.”

“Having the admiral aboard makes you nervous, does it, Roy?” Broadly said in a tone of heartiness. “Well, I regard it merely as an opportunity better to display Malthusa’s capabilities.”

“Commodore, you don’t think it would be wise to coordinate with the admiral on this—”

“I’m in command of this vessel,” Broadly said sharply. “I’m carrying the vice admiral as supercargo, nothing more!”

“He’s still Task Group CINC…”

“I’m comming this ship, Roy, not Old Carbuncle!” Broadly rocked on his heels, watching the screen where a quadrangle of bright points representing his interceptor squadron fanned out, on an intersecting course with the fleeing Djann vessel. “I’ll pinch off this breakthrough single-handed; and all of us will share in the favorable attention the operation will bring us!”

In his quarters on the VIP deck, the vice admiral studied the Operational Utter Top Secret dispatch which had been handed to him five minutes earlier by his staff signal major.

“It looks as though this is no ordinary boatload of privateers.” He looked soberly at the elderly communicator. “They’re reported to be carrying a new weapon of unassessed power, and a cargo of spore racks that will knock Containment into the next continuum.”