Keith Laumer: Thunderhead

“It doesn’t look good, sir,” the major wagged his head.

“I note that the commodore has taken action according to the manual.” The admiral’s voice was noncommittal.

The major frowned. “Let’s hope that’s sufficient, Admiral.”

“It should be. The bogie’s only a converted tender. She couldn’t be packing much in the way of firepower in that space, secret weapon or no secret weapon.”

“Have you mentioned this aspect to the commodore, sir?”

“Would it change anything, Ben?”

“Nooo. I suppose not.”

“Then we’ll let him carry on without any more cause for jumpiness than the presence of a vice admiral on board is already providing.”

Crouched in his fitted acceleration cradle aboard the Djann vessel, the One-Who-Commands studied the motion of the charged molecules in the sensory tank before him.

“Now the death-watcher dispatches his messengers,” he communed with the three link brothers who formed the Chosen Crew. “Now is the hour of the testing of Djann.”

“Profound is the rhythm of our epic,” the One-Who-Records sang out. “We are the chosen-to-be-heroic, and in our tiny cargo, Djann lives still, his future glory inherent in the convoluted spores!”

“It was a grave risk to put the destiny of Djann at hazard in this wild gamble,” the One-Who-Refutes reminded his link brothers. “If we fail, the generations yet unborn will slumber on in darkness or perish in ice or fire.”

“Yet if we succeed—if the New Thing we have learned serves well its function—then will Djann live anew!”

“Now the death messengers of the water beings approach,” the One-Who-Commands pointed out. “Link well, brothers! The energy aggregate waits for our directing impulse! Now we burn away the dross of illusion from the hypotheses of the theorists in the harsh crucible of reality!”

“In such a fire, the flame of Djann coruscates in unparalleled glory!” the One-Who-Records exulted. “Time has ordained this conjunction to try the timbre of our souls!”

“Then channel your trained faculties, brothers.” The One-Who-Commands gathered his forces, feeling out delicately to the ravening nexus of latent energy contained in the thought shell poised at the center of the stressed-space field enclosing the fleeing vessel. “Hold the sacred fire, sucked from the living bodies of a million of our fellows,” he exhorted. “Shape it, and hurl it in well-directed bolts at the death-bringers, for the future and glory of Djann!”

At noon, Carnaby and Sickle rested on a nearly horizontal slope of rock that curved to meet the vertical wall that swelled up and away overhead. Their faces and clothes were gray with the impalpable dust whipped up by the brisk wind. Terry spat grit from his mouth, passed a can of hot stew and a plastic water flask to Carnaby.

“Getting cool already,” he said. “Must not be more’n ten above freezing.”

“We might get a little more snow before morning.” Carnaby eyed the milky sky. “You’d better head back now, Terry. No point in you getting caught in a storm.”

“I’m in for the play,” the boy said shortly. “Say, Lieutenant, you got another transmitter up there at the beacon station you might could get through on?”

Carnaby shook his head. “Just the beacon tube, the lens generators, and a power pack. It’s a stripped-down installation. There’s a code receiver, but it’s only designed to receive classified instruction input.”

“Too bad.” They ate in silence for a few minutes, looking out over the plain below. “Lieutenant, when this is over,” Sickle said suddenly, “we got to do something. There’s got to be some way to remind the Navy about you being here!”

Carnaby tossed the empty can aside and stood. “I put a couple of messages on the air, sub-light, years ago,” he said. “That’s all I can do.”

“Heck, Lieutenant, it takes six years, sub-light, just to make the relay station on Goy! Then if somebody happens to pick up the call and boost it, in another ten years some Navy brass might even see it. And then if he’s in a good mood, he might tell somebody to look into it, next time they’re out this way.”

“Best I could do, Terry, now that the liners don’t call any more.”

Carnaby finished his stew, dropped the can, watched it roll off downslope, clatter over the edge, a tiny sound lost in the whine and shrill of the wind. He looked up at the rampart ahead.

“We better get moving,” he said. “We’ve got a long climb to make before dark.”

Signal Lieutenant Pryor awoke to the strident buzz of his bunkside telephone.

“Sir, the commodore’s called a Condition Yellow,” the message deck NCO informed him. “It looks like that bandit blasted through our intercept and took out two Epsilon-classes while he was at it. I got a standby from command deck, and—”

“I’ll be right up,” Pryor said quickly.

Five minutes later, he stood with the on-duty signals crew, reading out an incoming from fleet. He whistled.

“Brother, they’ve got something new!” He looked at Captain Aaron. “Did you check out the vector they had to make to reach their new position in the time they’ve had?”

“Probably a foulup in Tracking.” Aaron looked ruffled, routed out of a sound sleep.

“The commodore’s counting off the scale,” the NCO said. “He figured he had ’em boxed.”

The annunciator beeped. The yeoman announced Malthusa’s commander.

“All right, you men.” Broadly’s voice had a rough edge to it now. “The enemy has an idea he can maul Fleet units and go his way unmolested. I intend to disabuse him of that notion! I’m ordering a course change. I’ll maintain contact with this bandit until such time as units designated for the purpose have reported his neutralization! This vessel is under a Condition Yellow at this time, and I need not remind you that relevant sections of the manual will be adhered to with full rigor!”

Pryor and Aaron looked at each other, eyebrows raised. “He must mean business, if he’s willing to risk straining seams with a full-vector course change,” the former said.

“So we pull six on and six off until he gets it out of his system,” Aaron growled. “I knew this cruise wasn’t going to work out, as soon as I heard Old Carbuncle would be aboard.”

“What’s he got to do with it? Broadly’s running this action.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be in it before we’re through.”

On the upper slope, three thousand feet above the plain, Carnaby and Terry hugged the rockface, working their way upward. Aside from the steepness of the incline, the going was of no more than ordinary difficulty here; the porous rock, resistant though it was to the erosive forces that had long ago stripped away the volcanic cone of which the remaining mass had formed the core, had deteriorated in its surface sufficiently to afford easy hand- and footholds. Now Terry paused, leaning against the rock. Carnaby saw that under the layer of dust, the boy’s face was pale and drawn.

“Not much farther, Terry,” he said. He settled himself in a secure position, his feet wedged in a cleft. His own arms were feeling the strain now; there was the beginning of a slight tremor in his knees after the hours of climbing.

“I didn’t figure to slow you down, Lieutenant.” Terry’s voice showed the strain of his fatigue.

“You’ve been leading me a tough chase, Terry,” Carnaby grinned across at him. “I’m glad of a rest.” He noted the dark hollows under the lad’s eyes, the pallor of his cheeks.

Sickle’s tongue came out and touched his lips. “Lieutenant—you made a try—a good try. Turn back now. It’s going to snow. You can’t make it to the top in a blizzard.”