Скотт Джир: Genellan: Planetfall

"Praise the Lord," echoed another voice—Gordon, the youngest of the spacer Marines.

"Thanks, but I'll put my faith in Commander Quinn and Lieutenant Buccari," Dawson replied. "If anyone can get us out of this, they can."

"The lieutenant sure took a bite out of your tall, skinny tail," Fenstermacher sniped.

"She was doing her job, and I was doing mine, pukebrains," Dawson said cheerfully. "Buccari knows what she's doing. She can yell at me any time she wants."

"Okay, you guys," Lee said. "We got rules. Can the chatter." The petty officer sighed helplessly and looked about the cramped interior of the cylinder. She floated to her station, noting that the solar cells had deployed. The lifeboat was close to a star; electrical power would not be a problem; the lights would be on when they suffocated. She swallowed hard and endeavored to concentrate, but anxiety swept over her. Aliens! The fleet was gone and the corvette was in trouble. She was frightened.

An indicator flashed. An aural alarm buzzed. Lee reconnected her helmet lead and heard Ensign Hudson trying to raise her.

"Life One is up," she reported, failing to keep her voice calm.

"Roger, One. The bug ship was flashed!" Hudson replied excitedly. "We made it. for now anyway. I'm coming to get you. You having problems?"

"No, sir. Everything's okay. I was checking on the injured." Lee strapped in as she spoke, relieving her tension with activity. Noting that her passengers were reasonably calm and breathing normally, she punched a digital switch several times, thinning the oxygen being metered to her charges; any oxygen saved now might mean another few minutes of existence.

"How're they doing? I hear Fenstermacher's a hero," Hudson said.

"A real dumb one. And he puked in his pajamas to boot." She realized radio communications were being fed to every station in the lifeboat. She turned around and looked back at Fenstermacher. His good arm hung out into the aisle with its thumb up.

"Stop moving. You know the regs!" she commanded. "Fenstermacher, arm back by your side or I'll knock you out!" Fenstermacher' s arm retreated but not before his erect thumb was replaced by his middle digit. She switched off communications to the cabin.

Hudson continued to transmit: "You'll hear contact on your hull in less than a minute. I'm going to secure you with the grapple."

"Mr. Hudson, the fleet jumped. What're we going to do?" Lee asked.

"First things first, Lee. Let's get you rigged and docked, and then we'll take the next step. If it's any consolation, I'm scared silly, too. Hang on."

"Yes, sir," she replied, gaining reassurance that her lifeboat would soon be taken in tow, relieving her of being alone and easing the burden of powerless responsibility. Suppressing thought, she concentrated on the many checklist items left to do.

"Established in hyperlight, sir. Admiral…did you copy? Stable jump," reported Captain Wells, the flag operations officer. "Sir, are you all right?"

Fleet Admiral Robert Runacres floated at the perimeter barrier of the flag bridge. Even in the null gravity of the operations core he appeared to lean heavily on the railing, clenched hands and thick legs spread wide, the weight of concern bowing his helmet low. T.L.S. Eire's bridge watch, in battle dress, moved professionally below, but anxious glances were flashed in his direction. Runacres slowly unbent his neck and scanned the displays. Red emergency signals continued to flash on annunciator panels, defining the ill-fated mothership's status.

"Admiral, we need to shore up Greenland's sector," Wells said. "She's gone, Admiral. We caught her in the grid, but she's dead. No signals, no links. They've recovered some lifeboats."

"I see that, Franklin," Runacres said, pushing over to the tactical consoles. The flag duty officers—a tactical watch officer and assistant—were strapped into a horseshoe-shaped station at the lowest point of the flag bridge. Runacres looked down at the constantly updating status panels.

" Baffin or N.Z. report in yet?" Runacres asked.

"No, sir," the tactical officer reported. Several ships had broken radio discipline during the melee and were continuing to do so in the safety of hyperspace. Baffin and Novaya Zemlya, in the rear guard, had not been involved in the action, their captains wisely refraining from adding to the communications tumult. Greenland, in the van, had been the only mothership to take hits.

Aliens! He had found an alien race. But at what cost? Runacres straightened, removed the helmet from his slick-shaven head, and rubbed red-rimmed, watery blue eyes with gloved fists, shaking the fatigue and uncertainty from his ruddy countenance. He pushed off from tactical and floated past the stepped-up bridge stations, between the consoles manned by his somber operations officer and that of the corvette group leader, to his own command station.

"Terminate General Quarters," Runacres commanded, pulling himself into his tethers.

"Aye, aye, Admiral," Wells replied. The burly ops officer removed his helmet and touched a series of keys on his console. He mounted a delicate earpiece on his sweat-shiny, shaven head and began issuing orders on the network.

Runacres signaled the tactical officer. "Updated damage report."

"Aye, aye, Admiral," she replied, vigorously keying her console. Commander Ito floated into position behind the admiral. Runacres lifted his hand without looking up, and the aide placed a squeeze tube in the admiral's palm. Runacres squirted the sweet contents down his throat and waited for the energy rush.

"Damage report, Admiral," said the tactical officer.

"Go," said Runacres.

" Greenland destroyed. Catastrophic hull penetration, thermal runaway on reactor drives. Twenty-two survivors reported in lifeboats. Retrieval underway."

"Oh, God," Runacres groaned. Twenty-two survivors out of a crew of four hundred; but he had found an alien race. A race of killers?

"Preliminary indications are Tasmania sustained damage from a near maximum range energy beam—our own," continued the tactical officer. "Friendly fire stripped away positioning and communication gear but caused no structural damage. Tierra del Fuego reports moderate damage from acceleration stress and light radiation exposures."

" Tasmania's corvettes were recovered prior to jumping," added the group leader. " Peregrine One, Jake Carmichael's ship, took out three alien interceptors. One TDF corvette, Osprey Two, is missing. Skipper of Osprey One confirms that Osprey Two was destroyed in action before the fleet jumped. Osprey One and Two are both credited with single kills."

Runacres grunted.

"Four of Greenland's corvettes were recovered," continued the group leader. " Harrier One, Jack Quinn's 'vette, last reported engaged with alien units, is missing, presumed left behind. Quinn was covering the flight's return to grid." His report complete, the group leader sat nervously silent. Runacres stared at a point far beyond the bulkhead of his space ship.

"All other ships are operating normally, with all hands accounted for," said Wells, breaking the depressing silence. "Hyperlight grid is stable, but Greenland's grid sector is being patched at long range by Britannia and Kyushu."

Runacres digested the information, a dizzy sensation making it hard to concentrate. Aliens. And two corvettes and a mothership—over four hundred spacers, the cream of the fleet— destroyed or left behind, marooned in time and space. There was nothing to be done. His command, the Tellurian Legion Main Fleet, was withdrawing, committed to returning to Sol system. The emergency recall was automatic, the jump coordinates pre-set. Now they had to hold the grid up long enough to make the twenty parsec HLA transit—four standard months.